On Medina Lake
Robert Allen
September 7, 2025
from seventeen years ago
when the lake was full
In February
fog envelops us
we boat around in circles
miss both fish and shore
In March
Quickly we pass the A-frames, mostly empty
inviting us in through their magnificent windows
the docks with their high-powered boats
covered and hoisted from the water
the cedars, mesquites, and mountain laurels
half in bloom, receding from view
the shoreline forming a circle around us.
I lean back into my seat
against the skipper’s shoulders
and look up into the morning sky
trying to open my eyes wide
so I can take it all in:
the lower layer of clouds
dark and billowy and moving
the upper layer feathery, pale and stationary
the disk of the sun showing through
like a white ring just above the horizon.
I catch myself wondering, like a little child:
Why am I alive?
How did I come to be here, in the middle of this lake
at this hour, on this day?
What does it mean to be conscious in the universe?
In April
Billowing, puffy, dark gray clouds,
dampness in the air, sometimes
a hint of mist coming down.
Dense gray clouds with jagged edges
hanging back with a mere threat of rain.
That’s what we see
when the sky lightens up
after launching our boat in darkness.
Feeling clear-headed and alert, I think
Something special will happen,
something mystical and strange,
today out on the water.
Our skipper keeps telling us
how pretty it all is,
how many fish we will catch,
who will hook the first one.
I watch a heron fly low over the water,
with its neck curled up over its back
and its long legs hanging straight out behind,
crossing in front of us from starboard to port,
disappearing into the next cove.
We follow it.
In May
Here stands Carl Schwarz
proud owner and skipper
of a sixteen-foot-long twenty-five-horse bass boat
with his arms outstretched and in each hand
a nice two-pound black bass
ready for you with the camera.
Gathering his filet knife and cutting board
he proceeds to clean our catch
with no intention of keeping any for himself.
Carefully cutting and trimming the meat
tossing the guts, skins and bones to his cats
always looking for eggs or crawdads
he keeps saying over and over:
“Isn’t this the life, Robbie?
Isn’t this the life?”
Robert Allen lives in San Antonio with his wife, two children, one cat, and five antique clocks. His poems have appeared in Voices de la Luna, the Texas Poetry Calendar, di-verse-city, and TPA. He loves cardio-boxing, facilitates the in-person Open Writers Lab at Gemini Ink, and fished for many springs with his brother and a man who worked for their parents' business.
