The Little Waterhole

The little waterhole by the Hog River
at times is swollen as a jaundiced liver,
at others shrunken as a trophy head.
At times its H2O will rise and spread
across the adjoining parking lot when showers
have made the river rise and rush with powers
that only Mother Earth is equal to.
Around this pool, blossoms of every hue
give sustenance to the bugs and butterflies.
A silver-spotted skipper wins a prize
from spikes of purple loosestrife blooms, a bumbler
acts like a drunkard slugging from a tumbler,
while swallowtails flit round and round each other.
This is their moment. They’ll not get another!
About a patch of milkweed, monarchs bob
in search of the right spot to lay a glob
of eggs, so in the fall their caterpillars
can dine on milk that keeps away the killers
of lepidopterans. A drone fly sips
from Queen Anne's lace, a speedy goldfinch zips
across the lot in a path like ocean swells
while sweat bees bop to flowers that swing like bells.
This all will disappear next spring. They aim
to pave the pool. Someone saw fit to name
this haven a great bane upon the borough.
They’ll leave the lot as dull as death. Quite thorough
they’ll be! Under the duckweed, sons and daughters
of dragonflies hunt skeeters through the water’s
dense filaments of algae. Soon they’ll cease,
vanishing like the briefest glimpse of peace.