Cochituate

Cochituate

We paddle past the old gate house,

then under the first bridge. “Sound

horn or blow whistle,” warns a sign.

We shout, then whistle, then pass

under a second bridge. Above us,

noisy cars and trucks. Quiet fish below.

On the right, a Home Depot.

“If you look past that birch tree on

the right you'll see a line through

the woods where the old railroad

ran from Saxonville to Natick Center.

You can walk on it.”

Shadows on the eastern bank.

We stop at the next bridge

(where the track crosses the connection

between Middle and South Ponds)

landing on gravel. We walk up a bank,

along the tracks, to a bridge over

the highway. Traffic below us, and

a treatment plant across the road.

Paddling home, we watch geese fly

overhead, in groups of three, five, and more,

combining and separating

in vees and other shapes,

silent in the twilight.

A mallard swims nearby,

a red tailed hawk flaps through pines.

Yellow light – cloudless sky – silhouettes in

clear lake water. In our wake,

eddies from my paddle swirl

away like tiny whirlpools,

rippling the dusky surface of

Lake Cochituate
in November
at sundown.