hot humid day.
Captain of the ship (a boat with a shade awning) is on the shore of the lake
smoking a cigarette.
The crew of two (the wife and the daughter) are lugging the lemonade and the beer and bag of sandwiches and snacks through knee deep muddy water
to wet sandy feet
to the blanket he laid down on somewhat soppy Bermuda grass.
The flies on alert,
the mosquitoes’ flight-pitch elevating,
a puff of smoke disorients them
but only momentarily.
“You shouldn’t smoke!”
comes the call from just up-shore,
from a kid with a stick poking holes in the mud.
“It scares away the bugs,” says the captain with a stain-toothed smile.
The picnic is ready.
The cigarette is stubbed out.
The eating commences.
The ants began marching
when the blanket went down.