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It's here, at Birch Lake, a small pond at a Sierra
summer camp, that I learned to swim and had my first
teen love affair.
Today, 45 years since my last visit, I choose the
late afternoon light for the photographs I have
in mind to recapture my sense of the place.
In those summer days, the grassy beach was crowded
with families. I spent most of my time pretending
to read and chatting with my pals, but really sneaking
glances at the bikinied girls lounging on beach
towels. We lay on our stomachs in order not to display
our admiration.
Now the place is empty of people, the birch trees
barren of leaves, the grasses yellow—worn
through with bald patches showing dirt.
At the time, I didn't pay much attention to them,
but the native residents are still here: a painted
turtle rests on a weathered log; a bullfrog sounds
his 'wrooonk, wrooonk, wrooonk'; iridescent blue
dragonflies helicopter up and down, skim the lake's
surface, pose on the tips of reeds.
I was hoping for a windfall from the wild apple
trees, but most lie on the ground, full of worms.
At the lakeshore, the reeds too are spent—bent
over, the tops touching the lake's surface.
As darkness approaches, I walk up the hill to the
still open lodge, sit alone at a table. At the other
tables, couples eat in silence, staring past their
partners.
I look out the windows, past the tall trees down
to the grassy shore, see her there again, taste
that first kiss, cup my hand on her small apple-breast.
... what was her name?
The waiter interrupts my reverie, places the first
course...
birch trees—
the sigh of wind flowing
through leafless branches
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