I didn’t stop cause I wanted to, it wasn’t some planned thing, well, maybe the sun was dead set on its planned time to retreat, and I respected the threats of glint off the hood of my bronze SUV. Following signs to a lot, to park. Walked to where road met beach, to where beach met lake, alleging the lake became sky, as a couple positioned a camera on a tripod. To capture what is quickly escaping; a photo revisited years from now maybe with different people, watching different skies fade or hold tight together, but not for silly things; for changing diapers on sleepless nights, until their child to grows up blinded by glint of this photo, finally alleging what I saw that day—the fading sky that couple captured, a planned thing their stop, just to see how a lake and a sky are very much alike.
Michael Weber
Michael Weber grew up in Binghamton, New York. He holds his MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Tampa and MA in English from Binghamton University. Prior to graduate studies, he played professional hockey in Turkey. His poems have appeared in Pinch, Driftwood Press, Oyster River Pages, Oberon Poetry, and Great Lakes Review, among others. He is currently a Lecturer of English at Old Dominion University.
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