Tree trunks, white as marble.
Coffee mugs with curses in their wake.
Great bales of beaver pelts, once.
An anchor, and over there, another.
From the sand, the prow of a voyageur canoe
Breaks the lake bottom's liquid lines.
Occasionally there is a new thing
Binoculars
Sunglasses
A fishing rod
Each descends at a different speed
Sinking through the fathoms into darkness.
Irretrievable.
A fish once, with a flick of its tail, avoided
A collision with an empty pickle jar
On its way down.
It clinked against the anchor
Breaking into vinegary shards.
Given enough wind and waves
And time
It stands a good chance of ending up
As seaglass on some scrounger's shelf.
If only it can achieve a beach.
