The Lookout
by Ken Sanes
I am standing on a lookout,
lightly holding on to the metal railing
that surrounds me on three sides.
As I turn back to the street, I can see the fall leaves
moving along the pavement and circling in the wind.
Then, facing forward again,
I take in the dark surface of the lake at dusk,
framed by a silhouette of half-empty trees.
It is a striking scene
in what for me is a familiar place.
But as I look at it,
I can feel the wind against my face,
and it evokes a vivid sense that I am a tangible thing,
here, now, observing the water, the earth, and the sky.
At the same time, I feel exhilarated
over what I sense and see
as nature’s loss becomes the birth of a moment
when I can stand and look, and simply be.
Yes, I know, there are people who will tell you
that what I am experiencing
is merely an illusion of psychology and sense,
with puzzle pieces assembled by my brain
to build a world and manage a defense.
But my instincts tell me that this is real
and that it is an intensification of what I usually
perceive, and imagine, and think, and feel,
as well as a deepening of the sympathy for nature
we all have inside us.
At least that’s what I’m thinking
when something seems to move
over the surface of the lake
and draws my attention.
Unfortunately, I can’t make out the shape in the missing light,
and there isn’t much chance I’ll know the truth of it tonight.
So I commit the moment to memory
and walk back toward the street
like many others have done before.
As I do, of course I realize
that experience is veiled in darkness
and the true shape of things is obscure.
But I also know that poetry is a fabrication that is true,
which is why I’ll remember this moment,
and build a lookout with these words for you.