Why do we expect plate tectonics
and oxygen production and tides
and the protection of an oversize moon
and several gas giants and our rare
position in a sparsely populated zone of
a calm section of our galaxy and
other scientific observations to explain
what creationists laughably call a divine
Act
when we all know we are wearing the ghost mask
and pretending frantically we didn’t do it?

Little is more serene than long wide lawn,
yawning gently, greenly like inland peace.
Like natural prairie, lush, in spring or
calm cool ponds in parks or
empty parking lots or
shiny weekend terazzo.
The list is long
and sadly
similar.

August sun has baked the summer soil:
moss and lichens, clover and moonscape
stare entranced underfoot.

Hoppers patrol the slope down to the river
watching for monsters or other vacationers
gone with the latter boats across the water
and up the long road away.

We bear boxes of bedding, tools, extra memories
down to the boat to stow with the cool knowledge
of coming storms, snow and thaws and cobwebs,
as inevitable as snoring under the slumbering moon.