The Fife-playing Ghost of the West Hartford Reservoir

A ghost at the reservoir hikes the back trails,
tooting his fife. How it whistles and wails!
He’s not really a ghost, for there is no such thing.
While he seldom is seen, his shrill melodies ring

through the woodland. No mockingbird’s able to rival
his repertoire. There’s a delightful revival
of mirth in us humans who happen to hear it.
No, he isn’t a spook but a natural spirit.

Perhaps he imagines a fife and drum corps
marching along with him past sycamore,
beech, maple, and tulip, past red and white oak,
past birch tree and pine tree, the avian folk

along with the squirrel and chipmunk and fox
wondering what sort of animal walks
and tootles such intricate ditties. I’ve listened
for years every summer when sunlight had glistened

across the lakes’ billows and waves. I once strode
behind him as lilting march melodies flowed
transcendently, bouncing off branches and gravel.
His stride seemed as light as the sound waves that travel

from flute through the forest. I couldn’t keep pace
though I tried. And in no time there wasn’t a trace
of his white ponytail, while the ghost of a tune
still trilled for the deer and the bear and the coon.