Five p.m. along the shore
of the Big Lake, long before
the fireworks begin —
the water is calm enough
for a lone kayaker to paddle
and play in the still surf
close to shore, from a distance
looking like a backstroker
in a black wet suit, in the
still cold water. Farther
out the big boats sit
still floating back and forth
slightly in the zephyr breeze
and low, slow roll on a wave.
Behind them, barely seen
in the mist, the sail boats
with only one sail riding
the mast; they move in
what looks like slow motion.
And behind them in the West,
the golden sun muted by the
veil of fog rising. In four
hours or so, big time fireworks
will be shot off the end of the
pier. A few boats, running
lights on, will sit in the shallows.
The crowd at the state park
will shiver in the dark;
people up and down the beach
will sit on their private decks,
drinks in hand, unseen faces
red and bloated from too much
reveling. Men and women in
wheel chairs in Veterans’
hospitals millions of miles away
maybe in the trenches of
Germany, the rice paddies of
Viet Nam, the desert roads
of Iraq, the mountains of
Afghanistan, snuff out
cigarette butts, watch the
fireworks on T.V. as canons
explode and smoke balls billow
on the Mall. Some wince,
some don’t remember, some cry,
some cheer cynically and
rifle off lol and FYVM on their
I-pads to no one in particular.