Stones in the bed of the spillway,
each one crowned with a snow-cap,
suggest how tidy winter can be
when mood permits. I lean
over the rail to count the stones.
A hundred and thirty-seven,
plus those hidden under the bridge.
Frozen for a month now, the lake
is a lens through which a grave
intelligence ponders the world.
Sadly, it’s a cataract of ice,
rendering the vision so grainy
it can’t possibly tell the truth.
I should step back and take a photo,
but the subject’s so amorphous
in its endless shades of white
that I can hardly distinguish it
from myself. An historic spot,
claims a sign posted nearby.
Another sign warns boaters
to clean their hulls and avoid
spreading a pernicious alga.
I think I’ve been spreading
a mental alga all my life.
I wield my camera to frame
the spillway without revealing
the lake lying sullen behind it.
That half-blind lens follows me
step by step, compelling me to think
in larger terms than I like.
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