Katrinka MooreLater the same day
In the distance of the afternoon she lies on a boulder lodged in the stream. Bulwark. Crossed water-brushed stones to reach it. What you may stumble over, fortuitous, earthly. Letters forgotten in desk drawers, sender left behind. Snow melt rushes downhill, tumbles under bank-gripping roots, splits into two or three channels. Records of events that may or may not have happened. Bare shadows on red oak trunks. Maybe there are footprints in the snow mud by the door, clues. Unfolding of the universe as one accident after another. The light this time of year. A note in the margin that, belatedly, solves the mystery. Trespassed. At the bottom, level ground, the current is one current, the stream bends out of sight. She was never able to read the map. The slip of things.
Cross-
ing
A line on the lake, one side in shadow,
the other in light. Four ducks swim
one after the other—see their backs glow—
to the line on the lake, to the side in shadow. A rowboat drifts, the birds shift to a row.
As sun hits the prow, the fowl reach the rim,
cross the line on the lake, enter the shadow.
The other’s in light. Boat, ducks, whim.
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