While everyone is back at school
or at work,
the last rays of summer
speed West across South Pond
in a zillion points of white.

Like a city-scape
reflecting into space,
the competition is so dense
as to render the
deepest waters
white.

Amidst these miniature mariners of light,
a
single
Loon
propels himself
in the opposite
direction,
heading East
Chasing summer
in a one-man Olympic event–
His flamboyant breast stroke
Knocking tiny boats into the breeze.
His mate
no where to be seen.

Closer still,
the wind picks up
flattening white sails
against water
while others furiously tack
toward the Finish line.

I close my eyes,
unable to bear such weight,
waiting for
the
Sails to drop
the
Sailors to go home
the
Waters to still
and
the
single
Loon
to call for his
Mate
in the silent
repose
of
Summer’s
Surrender.