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Ray Rasmussen

Birch Lake

The last time I was here, the lake front was crowded with families sharing picnic blankets and congregations of teens on beach towels. I spent most of my time pretending to read, but really sneaking glances at a particular bikinied girl. I lay on my stomach to hide my lust.

This evening, the grasses are yellow–bent and worn from a summer of use. The birch trees are barren of leaves. A windfall is spread beneath the apple tree.

resting
on the reed tip
an iridescent dragonfly

A bullfrog's "wronk, wronk, wronk" breaks my reverie. I walk to the nearby lodge and sit alone. Several couples dine in silence, staring past one another.

mountain sunset–
painted turtles slumber
on a weathered log

Looking out the window, I see her again, taste that first kiss, touch her apple-hard breast.

What was her name ...