Point-Counterpoint
Lake Wylie, South Carolina
​
Purple martins stitch the heavy air
in endless search of protein on the wing.
They shadow a slightly later hour,
when low-hung clouds screen
the sun in windowed glamor.
 
But now the martins swoop and coo
over this manmade lake and its special effects:
ersatz waves radiate from a dozen wakes,
crisscrossing the shore in lapidary weave.
There, thousands of bleached mussel shells
bob and comb the ragged verge,
 
while high above tag-playing martins
and their song, an indifferent heron
flies home to wherever home
may be tonight. Only the live oaks,
the patina-ed waters sing
in ancient polyphony. Medieval. Eocene.