The heron rises overhead, As we push off the reeded shore With our one cracked, muck-covered oar, Onto the pond’s unstirring bed.

Bullfrogs rest, snapping in the weeds Just where, last summer, we found rotten Tackle, by fishermen forgotten As they passed on to other needs.

I know, not far away, the world Despairs of rotten church and state And finds less cause for love than hate, Its once brave flags now torn and furled.

I know as well, it was while hidden And thinking their room locked and bare That the apostles felt flamed air Send them to do as they were bidden.

The bright orange sides of koi slip by Obscured beneath the murky glass, And many darker things will pass Before we hope of knowing why.