Tall white spruce throw reflections on the stagnant Peshtigo River,
a light breeze sets them to shimmer in rippled, slate-colored water.
Red-headed woodpeckers pierce morning’s stillness, call wait, wait.

Nuthatches, phoebes answer. We watch bits of blue break through
murky skies from the deck of a rented condo, otter heads pop out
of water, catch a brief sunray, greet one another, then part.

Intermittent mist, the return of kids to school assure us
a vast reservoir to ourselves, save a sprinkling of fishing boats.
To the south, sweltering heat, but for us, a perfect seventy-two.

We motor the expanse, duck into channels, peer at fish in tannin-stained water,
beach our boat onto sandy shore, break out sandwiches of pulled pork,
coleslaw on Hawaiian rolls. Overripe watermelon runs down our chins.

High above, barely in sight, hundreds of night hawks appear, long wings flit,
beaks point south, a sign of season’s end—time to take stock of this year’s
blessings, hardships, the passing of yet another summer’s warmth.

Water boatmen skim the calm surface in spry, erratic motion, reminiscent
of our youthful selves. We putt along the river past blue herons tucked in tight
to shores, our long, slow wake gathering a lifetime of memories.

Nancy Austin relishes time to write in the Northwoods, has three collections of poetry, the newest titled Something Novel Came in Spring (Water’s Edge Press, 2021). A Pushcart Prize nominated poet, she is published in various journals, and savors time to write in retirement. Find her at www.nancyaustinauthor.com