Driving the back-roads
of Goshen,
I take the long way--
a weekend waits--
there will be
the gathering
of dear friends,
the once-a-year
pilgrimage
of the faithful--
I press
the curves and hills
with the carefree skill
of a Bavarian driver
on holiday--
the imagination
accelerates,
but I am early;
I take in the terrain:
spindly birches,
gray maples,
the late low sun
of early March
running along side
through the trees.
Down the hill
past the marsh
and beaver pond
where just last spring
a painter stood
catching the same
elusive light
on a slow canvas.

At the rise
on the other side,
I realize I
caught somewhere
in the corner
of my eye--
almost missed--
the motion
of what I presume
to be the tireless
beaver tending
to his dam.
I stop,
turn around,
and go back
to the pond,
to sit and
watch alone,
waiting for a sign,
some shift
in the light,
the smooth surface
of the gray water
circling the lodge,
where only mallards
peddle
about the edges.

8 Mar 02