Sunset On The Last Day Of Hunting Season
What deer still remain are far back in the woods by now.
They count their losses. The others count
their trophies. The score is even.
It's always a tie in the duality game.
Small ponds freeze first,
in the beginning, with just a film
at sunrise you wouldn't even
notice and then a crust
that lasts till noon. Now half-sunk slush
doesn't melt and the conspiracy of molecules
spreads to lakes. In the stillness
of a single night, when one breath
of wind might make the difference
between water and ice, solid reaches in and in
and grasps the last ripple for its own.
with black wingtip
soaring in wedges,
wheeling on a sullen sky –
Imagine these snow geese
in late November
scouting out a plausible lake
just before freeze-up –
Imagine we, too,
are that beautiful,
aloft and countless,
Photos: Peter Bowers
Joan Ruvinsky and Peter Bowers
her many faces
and none at all