by Kevin Casey
This camp was moved here eighty years ago,
along the road that follows the river,
by horses dragging it on skids over
snow, through town, then to this side of the pond.
Along the shore, children swing minnow nets,
stalking frogs among the shelves of dark shale.
The wind throws a diamond net over the pond,
and the boats begin to creak against the
gray dock. On the other side of the cove,
pine logs snap in a campfire, lit for lunch;
a loon calls out to warn that the eagle's
left the pine overlooking the river,
falling back toward the wild rice, endlessly.