A January moon flutes
through jack pine, pools
on new snow: Black River holds
its breath – the center of your years
ice over, a thin accumulation.
No tracks on this hammered freeze.
Her wingspan knifes the pitch.
is memory’s blunt moraine –
That summer he took
a black garbage bag, a shovel,
and lemonade sweating up the jar
back into State Land, and had you
steal seedlings, rootballs and all –
a dozen trembling wings slung
over his back – silence snagged
like a quiver of bones
unable to flee the coming groan
of sand drifting over those sweet
stunted blueberries, swallowing
his black wake.