for Leonard

From branch to branch of a walnut tree, a silken 
strand of web is gently swaying as if the wind, 

wearing ballet shoes, is crossing it. And look at
the lake’s rippled surface spangled with gold, 

and the water birds resting on a fallen limb, each 
facing a different direction like a pair of sentinels, 

ever vigilant. And who knew turtles could swim
so fast, their feet like paddles, their mud-colored

shells like a fleet of coracles? And a single cloud, 
as fat as an unshorn sheep, floats like a water lily 

in an azure sky. Together, we listen to the languid 
flap of a heron’s blue wing—watch pale yellow 

light sift through the tender green leaves, a white 
bass breaching the lake’s gilded lid. And above 

us all, the noon-day sun looks like a communion 
wafer, and summer air tastes sweeter than wine.
                        

Pulteney Weir, where the River Avon flows 
over V-shaped tiers, is a gathering place for 

gulls and swans. Some stand in the shallows 
near the weir’s cascading water, while others 

are as buoyant as pontoon boats floating upon 
the river’s surface. Downy-soft and white as 

foam, the swans curl their long necks and lift 
the tips of their alabaster wings skyward, as if 

seconds from taking flight. So cool and calm, 
they resemble a mirage in the glaring heat of 

a summer day, as serene as Abbot Thayer’s 
painted angels, gazing at some distant beam 

of light. The gulls, less ornamental than their 
graceful companions, caw and flap and fish 

as if circling a wooden pier instead of famous 
Pulteney Bridge. But nothing man can make 

is as perfect as a feather. And neither a swan 
nor a seagull needs a bridge to reach the sky.