Emissaries come from the pond— a red-winged
blackbird and a dog. Nothing else
yet. The silence is magnetic.
Several days, at dusk,
I’ve hoped to see
a moose. I’m told they appear
the pine forest stands
Its shadows are turning
articulate, claiming whole
These are the minutes of gauze. Sky and water meet
and spores; follicles open midair.
On the far shore, a rack of black branches
the vortex of expectancy— if it should lift,
lapping, it’s animal head out of darkness
I resume my petty squabbles with fate,
and subversive tongue; configurations
rattling in a box.