at a water neither river nor pond
by Ron Winkler
translated from German by Jake Schneider
wind forces flagellations on the trees —
a suffering grasped out of thin air.
for reassurance, it must be added:
their blossoms carry no pistols.
the landscape dignified, as if once
populated by Flemish painters.
the surrounding grass something
between hill swans and bristle bulls.
probably, the tread–on green
is the flip side of a discrete being.
quite different, the inevitable fauna —
in first place comes the frog’s racket faction.
when they’re not bathing, they’re baptising
the scene with their throats’ green notes.
the waves are easy to identify —
they jump springform pans on the land.
in the transition area, a few yards
of sludge serve as mud for art’s sake.
the seagulls serve onto nothing.
too bisyllabic their appearance.
whoever swims here is not a stroke,
but a swish in the water.