BY AMORAK HUEY
Blanched light before sunrise. Stony mist clings
to glass-dark surface, the last cool moment.
On the opposite shore, an elm-choked point,
a doe appears as if conjured. She sips,
then walks right into the water and swims
the thousand feet to the near shore, serene,
no sign of the churning her spindly legs
must do. Our greatest efforts go unseen.
I fear I will never remember this
perfectly enough to tell you: From here
her head has just the shape of a rabbit
walking on water. Dawn cracks the shell
of the eastern sky,
lake already failing the mist.