In that narrow strip between the road and the woods,
we search for the hidden entrance,
tucked in among the autumn olives and the poison ivy.
We dart in, ducking under vines,
Bullfrogs leap into the water as they sense our approach.
We’re quieter, listening to the birds, frogs and katydids.
A cicada’s buzz reaches a crescendo and fades into silence.
Among the reeds and bushes is a deep pool,
full of cool and clear water.
Back in the day, it was a fresh dig,
People fished from its shore.
Now nature is reclaiming the quarry.
Where the reeds end is where the quarry drops off.
It’s forty feet deep, so it’s best if you are a strong swimmer.
I float on my back,
with my arms pointed over my head,
lungs full of air,
and I float without moving.
My feet rise when I fill my lungs,
and I’m like a raft on the ocean,
moved by the ripples and currents of the water.
There it is again,
the rumble of thunder,
this time more insistent.
There’s a huge cloud approaching.
We dart and play in the water,
but our window to swim will close soon.
As we climb back up the steep side of the dig,
the wind shimmers in the cottonwood leaves.
It’s a warm wind, but wild,
and the trees weave and twist.
The air is full of leaves,
spinning and whirling.
The cloud bursts.
Frogs crowd the path,
Because they love the rain.
Then we’re back through the bushes,
back on the road,
soaking wet as we run to the car,
Joyful for a glimpse of wild nature,
and thankful for a cooling swim.
This poem first appeared in Tiny Seed Journal (2022).
—
Fred Pierre writes poetry at his home near the Cuyahoga River. If you don’t find him reading poetry at his local bookstore, you’ll find him out biking the river trail.
