Bone Lake

There are many bones in the lake. King Fishers and Great Blues carry the small ones away to weave them into platforms high in the wind whisked sky. They are always looking for more, so also is the fisherman with his scouring net trawling these waters. The cops are out hunting for the unlicensed and strays, there are plenty in these lawless times. The bone-taking fisherman snags the bones that the birds cannot carry off. Back in his shack, in the low tangled woods, he is constructing hollow forms none of them yet complete. “Loneliness is a terrible burden,” he tells the half-made skeletal constructions. The bones are impatient to be works of art, and no longer want to found murdered or drowned.