Laura Grace Weldon
Walking to the Barn at Dawn

Tiny dots bubble on the pond,
so much like gentle rain I expect to feel drops.
But they are fish feeding at the surface.
I can’t see their bodies
any more than they see mine.
Much I’m not aware of goes on
around me, within me,
well beyond me.
Only hints, faint as hungry mouths
from a different world,
strange as my father
speaking to me
on a phone that no longer rings.