Written by William Wenthe and read by John Poch
The drought summer the lake hung low.
Once-sunken stumps hugged
Their shadows, as we watched
A heron, across the water, articulate itself
In grave, measured strides, to where
A turtle slept on a log. The heron bowed
Its fluent neck, its clever beak
Nudged the turtle—slap into the lake!
IN the story I wanted to tell,
The turtle was me, the water
That unreadable depth I feared,
And the heron, the heron was love.