Bob was seven years sober
when he drifted out onto the lake,
thought about turning his boat over.
Seemed like a good idea
and he didn’t feel like waiting
for a better one.
I drift now over his same lake,
once a river canyon now dammed
by industry and the needs of leisure.
My skiff floats free above
black moss skeletons of trees rooted in stone,
their branched arms waving dead in the cold dark water.