At the Fort
by Mary Sexson
When I rode through here
years ago – in shape, strong,
suited to the bike
I was so proud of,
I’d come from my house,
miles away,
but as I circled
the still lake,
stopped and parked
my bike near the dock,
I had no thought
of anything but love,
a wave of feeling
that surged through me,
brought my feet off the pedals
down to the steadiness
of concrete
It was only luck
that brought the heron
across from the dock,
in front of the cattails,
just in to my view
In flight they look primordial,
ancient birds
that somehow beat the odds
and live millineum after millineum,
but here, in the water,
as it straightened its neck,
stepped gingerly among the detritus
of a lake bottom,
here it was just elegant beauty,
its splendor all for me
It’s Good to Be Home
by Lylanne Musselman
The calm pond
reflects the earth’s
greens – foliage
rippled and ragged,
as summer prepares
for its Fall. A fish lunges
through the surface
and dives in gusto
back to its world below
leaving less of a splash
than a Hoosier Olympian.
In the distance, locusts,
as my family always called them,
sing cicada tunes, as cattails
sway back and forth
in the gentle August breeze.
Elated, I witness these sights,
the birdsong serenades – all
familiar surroundings
of my Indiana home, this place
that runs through my veins
deep as the Old Swimmin’ Hole –
bubbling with belonging.
Spring Fever
by Liza Hyatt
After having a fever
and lying on the couch for three days
watching movies except for
one trip to the store for juice and soup,
I feel able this evening
to return to the bridge by the creek.
While I retreated into illness,
spring began.
This slow quiet light.
This feeling of being alive,
of being glad to be alive,
of being increasingly glad to be alive.
The peal of clarion bells
though there is no bell tower
and no music.
Sage, Today, and Pine
by Gary Schmitt
Glorious, dense,
pine boughs,
lavender sage beneath,
each with its branches
reaching for day and light
sprayed from the source,
a stem, a trunk,
to grow a purpose
to be.