by Yvonne Morris
A community lacking surveillance, a life zone beyond the camera’s eye, curled around Crooked Lake. From the porch, I watched hitched boats rattle down the sandy road by our house. I wandered a ragged field nearby, with its one wild cherry tree, its fruit feral and tart, tasting nothing like the gluey, red stuff Mom used to fill pies that complemented our usual menu of boiled hot dogs and fried potatoes. The organic smell of lake water lingered outdoors, silty, but sometimes sharpened by motorboat exhaust. While daydreaming of becoming an astronaut, I captured baby turtles along the shore, marveling at the world of their tiny, sluggish bodies. Then I released them, dipping my palms into a wave’s lapping pulse, watching summer swim away.
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