From a previous election

In an Election Year


The heron isn’t talking.

The willows keep sorrow
to themselves.

The lake holds counsel
in a low voice.

Farther up the hill,
jack pines rise.

The sun draws a new line of light,
across the parchment sky.

In October’s press,
through low-lapping fog

and the ancient warnings
of deep water, cold

nights, we listen for the sound of ice.