It was written long ago: the wing’s beat
and the owl’s stare; the cool drink of morning
on the mountain. The verdant fields knew how
to sing long before the blue bunting rose
to the occasion, long before tourists
rose up from the pavement and declared this
Vessels with technology might
be combing Lake Champlain for history
but we know there’s no fatidic tale the
lake will tell. It was written in our bones
only we don’t pay attention to that
story anymore. The ursine birth of
our distractions keeps us hibernated
through winter and beyond.
It is quiet
enough at the top of Owl’s Head to hear
your own voice pierce the stillness, crack it like
a quartz line. The fear settles over you,
an infant in a blanket. The wind.
It was written long ago: The echo
of someone’s love barely touching your skin.It was always going to be like this.