Evening

The sun stretches out
to float on the faint ripples
of McCook Lake, South Dakota, as the day
begins to shake out its blanket of heat.
The muggy, muffled songs of birds
give way to the clear, scarlet call of crickets,
and a few fireflies unfold on the tips
of the overgrown lawn.

Two silhouettes, wearing wide-brimmed hats,
putt-putt past, their voices unnaturally loud
over the hypnotic clink of wavelets
tapping the rusting barrels floating our dock.

There is a strong smell of lake water and mud,
high-pitched Doppler of a mosquito settling
down for dinner (my treat), the merest slow
caress of a damp coolness that sniffs
like an old dog and then retreats.

The lake is dimpled with feeding fish,
the sun, deep red, sinks into the cattails--
a window drags a screech up the sash,
and a woman calls dinner, come on, dinner.