Two kids from the city swear they saw
strange lights in the sky, so that is why
we are here, your shoes sinking
in soft mud while I’m barefoot, wading
in water that curls around my toes.
It’s twilight, the horizon bruised.
Shanties tilt to the side, floorboards soaked
from spring flooding, moss heavy
on roofs and banisters. Hemlock trunks
throw shadows like men, and I think
of my neighbor who claims that a week ago,
two figures in black suits walked through
her backyard. When she looked for their tracks,
she could only find pawprints of a large dog.
Purple loosestrife springs from small
islands, a lingering breeze sulks, kicks
cattails and chicory weed. In the distance,
towers from the oil refineries spark.
I hear a snap and a splash.
Carp, you say, or maybe brown trout.
Darkness hovers, smooths out the lines
in the sky. We lose hours in complete silence.