Crows and Snow
The bay is packed in ice with snow from shore to shore
where the great moon tide comes in all creaking,
inexorably lifting that ponderous protesting mass.
Across the white reach the far shore stretches unbroken and virgin,
not one cabin, one dwelling, to send its’ light across to me
and the only bird here in this bitter cold of winter’s wind
Is the crow – flying solitaire with flapping scrutiny of the intruder.
But now that I have come often enough to the field and the tide
they have come to fly in pairs – slow steady beats of their wings
and we accept one another.
The bay packed with snow and ice from shore to shore
is randomly heaved into giant statuesque stroboplosions of ice sculpture
as in some slow motioned dream of crows and snow
by the living tide venting itself against the unseen living rock
- yet I know the Smelts come soon and the Tom Cod.
Is it this visibly frozen cold that is their dream
or is it the spring to come?
the most magical bay in my first venture into the past of my youth – West Bay an arm of Gouldsboro Bay in Maine.