A small splash captures my attention
on a night that swelters with stagnant sunset’s
promise of cooler air in hours to come.
The culprit is a beaver, he fishes in our bay.
I savor my sweet, cold dessert as
I watch him catch his own dinner.
He disappears again and again until he strikes
the gold of silver scales, fish flashes from
his mouth in dying sun’s rays.
He swims past me, across the small harbor.
Ripples form an aquatic cape behind him,
spread until spans from my dock
into the vast channel, deep enough for
the monsters of freighters to travel.
His fur forms peaks, matted and wet,
the questionable brown of blonde’s eyebrows,
too cautious to fully commit.
Ears flat, two black eyes just above
river’s watercolor surface, they do not see me.
Behind him, inky black tail propels his body,
workmen’s pride; his flat, wide paddle.
I watch him swim, prize still held
by two front teeth. Past neighbors’ docks,
cape’s splay must be across the river by now-
the miniscule waves break on Wellesley rocks.
He follows the shoreline,
around the bend, out of my view.
I take my empty bowl inside and
turn on the light.