The light falls on the far shore first.
But here the cold gray closes round
the bland mother mallard
battling blustery chop
all littered with leaf and log--
a ruined hatch of lacewinged things,
feathers,
a knot of kitestring.
The churning wreckage of a dark wild wind
raking this black water
and its beleaguered duck.
It tangles my hair,
it yanks my shirtsleeves
and blues my knees.
Its cold slash bruises my face--
and freezes the blood in my toes
to sharp shards.
But on the far shore the soft light begins.
It falls like celery colored silk on those tree tips--
a gentle hand strokes swaths of jade
along the haunches of those hills.
On the far shore,
like a whispered prayer,
it gilds that water
and rests upon those reeds.
And then--
as if listening--
at last braves a thin line of floating amber lace
to find the edges
of the cold rocks beneath my feet.
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