Ralph Macioci
Buckeye Lake Photo Shoot
Ducks float on flaming pools of dazzling
sunlight. Invisible feet paddle to shore
where the mother preens coffee-colored feathers.
A great blue heron glides overhead
as if inventing sky.
A lone fisherman lugs his tackle to the tip
of a promontory that projects into the lake.
I polish the lens of my camera, point it
at the belly of the heron as it drifts
in one smooth continuous motion
to a different sky.
The ducks sit in the weeds, wooden decoys
undisturbed by the camera click.
I aim the telephoto at the angler who casts
his line beyond the lake's froth. In a brown
Bora Bora Boony II hat, green Tamiami
long sleeve shirt, and angler pants, jaws flexed,
he flings his line again, watches the long narrow
shadow it makes on the water sink below the surface.
He wets his lips, tastes solitude.
I lift my camera to the long-legged heron
that has reappeared, stands in marsh-like shallows,
with its sharp beak stabs a struggling fish.
I stop taking pictures to just linger, look
across the lake, touch everything with
appreciative eyes. I believe in this special world
of water and light, in becoming best friends
with peaceful loneliness.
Traces of Fall
Light fills rifts between clouds with swatches
of indigo. Ribs of an oak release robins
that reshape air with flight, wings reiterate
sun. In the recess between seasons, I
rediscover the yellow hue of each day,
the harbors where leaves twist down like orange
and scarlet sails. Early shadows cool
the lawn and camouflage rowdy squirrels
that cavort like rabid clowns. I amble
around the yard, notice sunflowers
are on fire with twilight and dogwood
leaves are rusty-edged near death. Subdued
by the last hours of daylight, I open
the door into the house, the late bees
of October still hum in my head.
