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Muskrat
Mud and puzzlegrass and plastic bags—and you, somewhere off the little dock
Under dark water. Last spring I saw you ferry a dead fish in your mouth, proud of that
Swollen dull-white carcass, its stench and sunken eye. In winter, your house, a
Knotted mound of reeds, pushes up through ice. Whether you descend or briefly
Rise toward what sustains you—snails and crayfish, cattails and water-lilies—
All your acts proceed mostly submerged, just like the life of heart and mind.
The man beside me on the shore that day a stranger still, even to himself.
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