arriving at the dock
the ferry on the island side,
in the brisk wind
I row over to fetch it
ferrying back over the sound
to get my car
with only the pair of nesting wagtails
as passengers
I am not an ancient sailor
who ignores
the warnings of the elders
I am a man asking for reality.
Setting out alone
in strong headwind,
sleet piling up on my back
as I row towards a sheltered bay
on a distant outer island
halfway I give up
as a pair of goldeneyes
fly past me downwind
on their whistling wings
I head home,
to the warning
hearth
and a cup of tea
The future is hidden
behind our backs,
and approaching you
is like approaching
a distant island.
I row my double-ender,
not seeing what’s ahead,
dipping the oars
into the water
an occasional glance
over my shoulder,
stealing a glimpse
of the future
I don’t try
to mystify existence
but it mystifies me
goldeneyes
throw their necks back,
beak nearly touching tail
a single drop of water
landing behind them
I am one of those
who cross back and forth
when others want to cross
it takes three cars
or a tractor with a full wagon
and about ten of us
live on the island,
in summer, guests arrive
I remain by the water
while it moves and sings,
the lake never sleeps
the diesel engine answers
puffs and chokes
rattling and clattering
the song goes on
without ambition
or recognition
in ordinary clothing
Listening to the clean crunch
of my footsteps
as I walk
over the snowy ice
in my boot tracks
from yesterday
a fox trotted
then turns
from my trail
towards
the distant
mainland
streaks of wind shattering the calm water
my small rowboat drifting in the gusts
“in the latest attacks
the aggressor started using missiles
that penetrate concrete fortifications”
reeds swaying
above debris on the bottom
Watching the sunrise
from a small granite
outcropping
a slow humming dance,
waving my arms,
moving feet,
shadow boxing
to warm myself
two puddles of rainbow
beside the sun
on the ice
a wood pigeon
begins to coo
Wavelets
rock my rowboat
tethered in the shallow bay
in the reeds
a common frog croaks
like a creaky mooring
a pair of teals
swooshing in
cool breeze
through the alders
I still walk shorelines,
barefoot on the beach
weather in driftwood,
lines and veins in polished stones
as I jump from one
ice-age stone to another.
It’s in the feet
suddenly forgetting
and slipping
My cleats
denting the wet ice
staggering
and slipping
on the mirror
a flock of wood pigeons
spiralling from the sky
falling to my knees
in near silence—
by the shore
trills, whistles,
chatter
a starling tuning
In the lead-gray morning
clouds hang low
polishing the molten water
a pair of geese with necks erect
on a small outer islet
four whooper swans
skimming
in close formation
one briefly
dipping its wing,
brushing the surface
Thinning light
darkness taking its course
White-tailed sea eagles
cackling and squawking
settling in twilight
rings on still brackish water
Rowing through the channel
under the old wooden bridge
past the beaver lodge
to the south of the island
a marsh harrier briefly accompanies me
in the reeds
soft croaks of toads embracing
The three-day storm now abated
the lake a perfect mirror
I walk the eastern shore
thinking of the sturdy
half-cut aspen
soft trail, air unmoving
the beaver-chewed tree
groaning, creaking,
tearing, cracking, snapping—
tipping over the trail with a thud!
a mink passes over me
as I glide under
the wooden bridge
a heron stands in wait
the water swirling and seething
with spawning bleak
“I’m sorry I blather so much”