Reflections on a Lake

On the Waccamaw, the water doesn't have a color.

It becomes a mirror, reflecting every shade of autumn,

every cloud like tangled sheets against the wind's ripples.

And as if the river is a ballroom built for queens,

tadpoles dance around each other in perfect harmony,

until the plop of a bobber echoes between the trees,

and a young man gets a Saturday morning catch,

the click click click of his reel bringing in a small catfish.