In the morning we took a walk along the shore;
hoar frost covered the sand; I expected it to make
walking easier, but it wasn’t, and when the ice
was erased by the onrushing foam I understood why.
We marched north, and then we marched south,
until a freshwater stream flowing into
the welcoming tide stopped the trail we made of time.
Ten feet from an eagle perched on a giant stump,
we snapped pictures that made it look light
on our shoulders, and then watched it soar the length
of our march with just a single stroke of its wings.
Back in the cabin you buried yourself in a warm bath,
while I sat and stared at the burial grounds off shore,
listening to ice break from the gutters, and fall.
