At Lough Eske

 

I am part of a lake becalmed. Sitting here, oak woods my collar,

feet paddling November leaf litter, mind deep in the reflection

of tree trunks; further out, the tracery of their ash grey branches

grading to the cumulus ruminations of an overcast Donegal sky.

I am among those branches, an intricacy of neurons, still as a blackbird

considering the world from a height; song silent now, but full inside;

I am among those trunks, quiet nimble-eyed fox peering out from shadows,

brimming with the present but with only the faintest gleam off my scales.