At Willow Point
Not a bird, who would be
able to fly away if the ground turned liquid
below its feet, but something loping,
mammalian, has crossed the rarely frozen cove
since the last snow turned it from silver
to white—Though really,
this color that is said to contain all colors
only to look like their absence
is this evening a greyed lavender,
a muteness under a birdless sky;
it is snow swept flat, reflecting the great, color-field sky’s
last moment,
yet brighter—whiter—
And I wish I had ears like the fox
to lead me across with the same
effortless care, hearing each crease
under the skim coat of snow,
with padded bare feet to feel any softness unseen.
I, too, would make a straight course to the island
we usually only visit in summer,
sailing, tacking.
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