Swarthout Lake in Early November

BY HARRY WAITZMAN

Does it matter the lake is manmade,

not carved by an ancient glacier,

but by shovels in hands of immigrants?

A flotilla of ducks moves smartly

and I spy them through boughs of oaks.

The banks of Swarthout shade them.

In a V formation, the leader looks

forward, the others follow with precision;

they make war on sunfish until noon.

  rockland county poetry