The lake was closed for the winter,
the first snow was closing in fast,
and the Noble Pine that stood tallest
near the water slides at the man-made beach
had already been slung with Christmas lights.
The three-mile footpath that circled the shore
was covered with fallen maple leaves;
the trees themselves were stripped bare.
I followed the slow circumference of the path
and counted the offerings left by the tourists—
empty cans, fast food wrappers, and other
tithes to the religion of progress—
then I remembered that the lake wasn’t a river;
it couldn’t flow southward to cleanse itself.
Creative humour, satire and other bad ideas by Ross Murray, an author living in the Eastern Townships of Quebec, Canada. Is it truth or fiction? Only his hairdresser knows for sure.
I'm Michelle. This is my blog. I write about women and fatness, expound upon semi-coherent thoughts I have in the middle of the night, and offer tough love to those in whom I am disappointed; they are legion.