Every year about this time, yellow flag irises bloom
on the far shore of the lake, beneath the pines.
Normally, they’re rising from a few inches of water.
But this year, when we have gone over two weeks without rain,
I could follow the nearly invisible trail the deer make down
to the water’s edge where they grow, looking like angels
floating on tall stems above the marsh, wild forget-me-nots
surrounding them as if to catch and memorize their songs.
I approach them slowly, lest I startle them into flying away.
Then I stand silent and unmoving before the nearest one,
holding my breath, listening as she hovers mid-air.
She is singing her golden heart out, and the notes cascade
down my spine in waves of electric joy.