Caleb Delos-Santos
When gazing too close,
that lake looked like wings:
ripples of feathers,
winds slipping through folds of navy.
Remember how,
when a stone tumbled in,
the waters even fluttered,
shifted like indigo joints inside a bunting?
When too close, didn’t that lake
glance back with owl’s eyes,
wide and reflecting,
like it was ready,
like that lake was somehow so ready
to fly?
In many ways, we wanted to soar,
just the same.
I believe, in many ways, we did: all of us
wiring all our hands together, launching up,
to skip around on constellations,
to serve as the new stars, the brighter rainbows,
future symbols for humanity.
Who are we to regret the work?
I couldn’t. I won’t.
But I did touch down,
last night, for a few minutes,
to see if that lake is still there
unwrinkling its wingspan, still gazing.
I glanced close and wide
until a stranger came and told me:
that lake has been filled,
bagged beneath a layer of concrete.