Poetry

High Water at Lake George

High Water at Lake George   A windmill’s caught calf-deep in water.  I’d like to think it waded out on whim for the fun of squeezing mud up through its toes. Or to stand there fishing, feet planted wide, four-squarely down among the fingerlings— quick silver things—that graze there now. Some trick of weather trapped it where it was put to pump up water and fill a trough that’s full past overflowing. Sails turning, head to wind, awash in what it’s worked so hard for, unwilling now to stop. Friend to fishes. Fate making good with all, and more, of…

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