The Lake is like a sheet of glass,

Perfect, and untouched.

It shines in the morning light, perfectly clear

Reflecting the trees shapes back upon us.
With it’s blue – black, color,
As if attempting to hide the fish from the birds of above.

And then someone, somewhere, decides that the glass isn’t important
And rips through in with their speeding motor boats,
As the waves, move with a ripple,
upon the beach.