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.

Crestline, California, November 2006