Each side of the lake
has a neighborhood.
One has
tall houses,
wraparound decks,
private sheds, docks.
The other has
ranchers, trailers,
kayak racks,
flagpoles.
A motorboat goes by,
with a child in an inflatable tube.
A small boat coasts along the edge.
Three men stand on different sides,
fishing rods in hand.
One waves across the lake
at another boat
with other men doing the same thing.
A child stands on a paddleboard
off the shore of a backyard.
An older woman watches her
from the porch.
Another motorboat zooms by—
faster, a larger wake.
Your kayak rocks.
A single man on board,
music blaring, hair flowing in the wind.
Tag: Environment
An Open Spot
A heatwave swallows the mountain.
Attempt to escape.
Turn off to Trillium Lake.
A line of brake lights greets you
half a mile from the lot.
The wait and the crowd seem
less worth the trouble every minute.
Try Clear Lake next,
find a full parking lot, cars
parked illegally along the highway.
Form a new plan, wait to slip in
as people leave in the afternoon.
Drive up to Timberline Lodge,
see Trillium below, its surface
as much boat as water.
It’s hard to care about the debates of the Entmoot
when the flames of Mordor surround you.
You drive back to Timothy Lake,
through three parking lots
to find an open spot.
On the water, you stop paddling, coast in the shade.
Cold water drifts through your fingertips.
Two Canada Geese
Two Canada geese
swim out from the shadow of the tree line
along the edge of the lake.
They turn at a right angle,
travel around the dock
along the boat ramp.
A motorboat
pulls in to moor
at the end of the dock.
The geese startle,
flap their wings, spin,
give a wide berth.
They continue
to the shore, turn to continue
along the edge of the lake.
People in paddle boards,
children and dogs
crowd the shallow water.
They slalom
around the obstacles,
reconnect beyond the beach’s reach.
Two Canada geese
swim into the distance
along the edge of the lake.
On the Surface of the Water
Soft ripples in reflections
of the shore and the ridge behind it
create a fluctuating barcode
on the surface of the water.
You row by a tree trunk doing a headstand
in the middle of the lake.
Its body leans at a 60-degree angle.
As you approach, you find
several large nails hammered into it,
abandoned.
You stop rowing,
watch drops of water fall from your paddle,
the growing ripples trail behind you.
A subtle breeze over still water,
which changes color
in the clear reflections of
the green ridge,
the blue mountain,
the brown shore.
You travel through
a village of stumps in the lakebed,
decapitated a century ago.
Their raised roots spread like spider legs.
Footholds are carved in their trunks.
On your way back,
you see two motorboats descend the ramp.
You hear them start,
see them speed to the opposite side of the lake—
still audible once out of view.
The reflection of the mountain
becomes a pale static.
One Day
One day, the life that flowed through you
will be gone,
leaving only
the husks of your bones
to dry in the sun.
One day, the sun, wind, and rain
will erode those bones,
leaving only
the impact you had
on the landscape.
i was here
hello. this is your house; i’m aware.
i don’t know how to say this kindly, but
i was here
before you.
i was here
before that blonde house-flipper in the flannel made cheap renovations to the facade.
i was here
before the previous family fell into addiction and the house fell into squalor.
i was here
before the men in hard hats put together the 'good bones' the realtor told you about.
i was here
before ox hooves and wagon wheels left tracks in my mud.
i was here
before the first humans foraged for huckleberries and hunted deer in my foliage.
i was here
first.
i will continue to be here
after i’m done with you.
it’s a new year
it’s a new year.
a wet rain fly hangs
over your shower rod.
look over three stacks of unread books.
out your window, rain falls
through steam ascending from
the open mouth of your complex’s hot tub.
ripples jump around the puddle
on the caving pool cover
like the dots on listen to wikipedia
after another gazan hospital bombing.
water drips
from a rudolph nose on your neighbor’s altima,
from the lip of a pot of dead bell peppers,
along the rust marks on the community barbecue.
above the trees,
the sky is a blank sheet of paper
staring back at you.
rivers of ice
in movies slow motion brings the viewer’s attention to critical information in reality slow motion allows critical information to fade into the ether in movies your justice complex is admirable leads to the solution to a problem in reality your justice complex is a burden causes your ostracization in movies slow motion builds tension the viewer can’t look away in reality slow motion lacks urgency the viewer looks at their phone in movies your anxiety fuels a pursuit for knowledge brings community to the cause in reality your anxiety stops you at the threshold builds walls around you in movies a happy ending applause roars as you’re recognized for your efforts in reality there is none calved chunks of ice crowd the bow of your boat
M. Espinosa 