Tim B Muren

I want to say it was beautiful, the scorpion
on the 2x4—segmented tail
curving back on itself, almost translucent
yellow armor—but really
I yelped and flung it in the lake.
It didn't sting me, just brushed
my hand when I picked the board up
out of Timothy grass. Elaborate
figurehead on a simple raft,
parting the Judas pods, bumping
back against slate. I pushed it away
from the levy with a stick until it found
the current under sweetgum
and slippery elm to its Niagra—
the concrete spillway where my sisters
once painted red and yellow
flowers on the square steps
between sluices. The hero arachnid
plunged into the minnow trap.
I leaned over the algae netted mud,
footprints filling with water.