The reservoir we walk around
is like glass today, reflecting
our lockstep reserve.
No dancing, only a few step
on the grass, little profanity,
no kissing. The repeated squeak
of sneaker on cement, until we are startled
by the cracking burst of pistols
from the firing range below,
reminding of all those shots thousands of miles away,
our faces repeating those sad blank stares
the young, not starting, older, not finishing,
both with death and the smell of death.
Yet the buds never listen:
frozen out twice this year,
they are at it again.
And now the ducks start their
restless honking, repeating
a mirror of some lovely song
that is always a target.