Clapp's Pond

Three miles through the woods

Clapp"s Pond sprawls stone gray

among oaks and pines,

the late winter fields

where a pheasant blazes up

lifting his yellow legs

under bronze feathers, opening

bronze wings;

and one doe, dimpling the ground as she touches

its dampness sharply, flares

out of the brush and gallops away.

*

By evening: rain.

It pours down from the black clouds,

lashes over the roof. The last

acorns spray over the porch; I toss

one, then two more

logs on the fire.

*

How sometimes everything

closes up, a painted fan, landscapes and moments

flowing together until the sense of distance - - -

say, between Clapp"s Pond and me - - -

vanishes, edges slide together

like the feathers of a wing, everything

touches everything.

*

Later, lying half-asleep under

the blankets, I watch

while the doe, glittering with rain, steps

under the wet slabs of the pines, stretches

her long neck down to drink

*

from the pond

three miles away.