As of Late

The lake rising above me, the steep ground pushes me closer.

I womp when I walk.

Stride leaning, cowering, swaying. The trees, branches crack. Back curves, try to be flat. Hope not to slope as the ground does. Tide, no tide, although it tries.

No salt to satisfy. I’d rather it that way, why?

Left, flap, right.

The light leaves some shadows. The leaves leave, crack, drift, like my mind.

Where are you?

Hallows await, the gate. My gate, yours. Symmetrical, we try.

Here is where i’d like to run, now though, no. I will not, for the predictability sets in. Possibly, causable, probably, possible, I wish I did.

Sometimes I am here with you, or her, or him, who used to be IT.

Trail, then, lead me to the rocks, where my feet loose their footing, where I wobble and clank, and keep my head to the ground,

stuck in the color of the sand that once was, and now is, formed.

Seagulls squawk ahead and overhead. With jet tails from planes mistaken as their exhaust and eyes to the lake for a catch.

How do they see from up so high?

I cannot see the end, though If I were to fall in, splash, I would surely know it.

I sit where I shouldn’t, I am not scared.