Balls of Mystery

Today I walked along the edge of stone and water,

wind switching lanes from marsh grass to dirt path.

I’m in the mood for Spring. I’m done with smoky

indoor fires and TV shows about crimes in California.

There is true mystery down on the cold black surface,

one white Styrofoam cooler and a tennis ball caught

in a weathered timespan of family or fishing buddies

holding on as their boat suddenly takes off with cans

and chips and napkins spinning like whitecaps in space

between blue water and puddled muck. I see deflated

plastic caught in the split rocks, a pale puckered beachball

next to the green ball holding steady in this unsteady mood.

I no longer have dogs, but the one neighbor who does

has a tethered toy he teasingly throws out and pulls back.

This is the middle of nowhere, no tennis court nor sandy beach

for miles around this lake, and yet some windy trickster blew

these orbs here to play with my viewpoint. As I ponder its game,

I’ll just flop to my knees, edge down the steep incline, pull them

out, take a closer look, drop them into my backpack to be brushed,

inflated, made presentable for a toss-about in sunnier weather.