Not to tell just what we see
here-no one who heard that would
believe it anyhow-this folded lake like a
picture on a postcard
peacock blue to shaggy
amethyst, too clear for
fishing. The Cascades break in rough
consecutive bronze waves down from a
vacant sky, spiked with fir row upon
row regular and jagged as the
teeth on a new saw. Not to tell what a
picture could tell easily, or to add that ripples reflect to
underwater sand white light in
octagons. But to include the people-
dipping and playing with their
city toys, clustered in the bowl drained by an
ocean, not looking up or out
until the dry wind clatters in at
five o'clock, and they hastily
gather up their traces and turn up toward
bellying green tents. A
lagging child says, "Play my
game. If you step on a rock, you can't
go home; if you step on a stick, you
have to back down." He and his followers
back toward the bright edge of the
beach until their mothers call
in high excited voices trembling through green air,
No, no. Come
home. Come
home. The children turn shine of hair, cheeks
raised by laughter, slap of sole on wet solidity of
sand. We can't. We can't come
home. The sticks, the stones. . . Come get us. Afraid?