On my way to Mom’s, I drive into Beals Point
to admire the spectacularly full lake,
the water rarely so high that seeing
the vastness of blue submerging
granite outcroppings winked with mica
feels almost miraculous.

The flotilla of Canada geese looks happy,
a giant flock of fifty sculling toward shore
in a perfect line that my synchronized
swimming team would have envied.
They turn as if hearing a musical cue
into the curved arm of shore where I
stand like a coach watching their
performance, their black eyes and
matching velvet necks swiveling in my
direction. I know what they’re thinking:
human = food.

But I have come empty handed, and,
because I talk to pretty much every living
thing that approaches—walking,
swimming, crawling or flying—I say
most sincerely, I’m sorry I didn’t bring
you anything.

One tall fellow gracefully rises to his
feet in the shallows. Honk! he honks.
I hold out empty hands. Really sorry,
I say, and he flutters his feathered bottom
back into swimming mode. As one,
the flock moves on, looking, I presume,
for shores with good grass to nibble—
or perhaps more cooperative humans.

Later, after our Momday appointments,
she asks me to drive her into what, after
almost sixty years, I still think of as our side
of the lake lapping up the trees and boat
ramps of Granite Bay. Even from the car,
we see the flock—still fifty strong—
paddling the shoreline miles from
where they started that morning.

There they are! I say, delighted by these
residents, who, like me, might well be
the second generation of their families
to call Folsom Lake home,

who, if they are lucky, are taking in
this beautiful summer day on the
water with kin at their side—perhaps
the ones who taught them to swim
in these waters, who urged them not
to worry about how deep or how shallow
the blue, to trust that they will float,
held by forces they will never see,
but will support them all the days
of their lives.