You pack books in boxes, dismantle
library shelves
Whitecaps after the storm; the beach
is packed. A stretch of sand, no lifeguard.
Empty the freezer: cookie-dough
ice cream, bratwursts
The doctor’s children beg to swim.
He answers, No. Water’s too rough.
From tree to tree fill thistle
in goldfinch feeders
Past the sandbar two teenage boys’
kayak hits high waves, overturns.
Stack beach towels like cityscapes
on laundry racks
In choppy waters the boys shout.
Their mother on the beach cries out.
Bubble-wrap vases, lock the crystal
in dark cabinets
Wading into the lake, the doctor
pushes the pair back to the sandbar.
Roll down umbrellas, empty out
the kiddy pool
But a six-footer hits, drags under.
Current hauls him into the rip-tide.
Water impatiens, pluck tomatoes
from heavy vine
Pediatric surgeon dies
trying to rescue drowning boys.
Carry the last bag from the house,
load the car, drive
past Cherry Beach
No sirens. No helicopters.
Sky ablaze. Immaculate day.