Towards the Sun or The keeper of the bay they call a pond

The distance last night Was longer for my legs; From shore to shore Round Butcher’s Pond I marked the fallen limbs. I pulled them back from the edge, From the swirling weeds, The duck nests, and Half-thought beaver’s dams. I tucked them aside Under the trees they’d fallen from, And I kept the few small ones In my hands for fighting cold. Long boats crept out From behind the longer haze Of a winter lake’s horizon. That night or another night Thereafter I would eat The body of a rabbit I found shivering in the dark. There is no one to hear The sound of the pebbles Skipping across the surface. There is no one to hear The betraying crash Of bear through brush. Each Autumn I wait For my relief – the letters Of geese flying southward Towards the sun.