Out of the Waters

Past midnight in the full moon darkness
from a home high on a cliff, 
a semi-trailer truck leapt from the side
of the hill into the silvered night diving
in perfect vertical form, its bone white fence
body straight-lined behind the hollow cab.
The carrier pierced the calm moonlit shimmer
of the lake like an Olympic diver
and expired into the deep.

Time passed. Out of the blackjack-covered rise
above the lake sprung the pale white
specter of a school bus, each window opaque
like the glazed eyes of a corpse.
It seemed to hang in the air then fall
in awkward tumble and, with a silent slap 
of the water, floated, tipped, and slid away.

Morning sun sparkled the surface where
a herd of cattle swam toward the bank eating
from the water.  Apples! Apples were falling
onto the ruddy waves and cows, big bellied cows,
like ducks congregating for free bread, 
were coming for the prize.

Straddled on the bony ridge of their backs,
like happy actors on a parade float,
school children, smiling and waving, children
cheering at the mamas with baskets of apples!