And then one more poem from this book, again about--
as I said-- about that place called Blackwater Mountain.
And I think there is Blackwater Mountain.
It's all the same place.
Well, this is about the son whom I finally
forgive [LAUGHS] for sending me into that damn lake
to go after that duck that he shot on the water,
and letting me stay in there for five hours
or however long it was while he sat up by the fire.
How can you shoot a duck on the water
when you're a vicar of Christ?
Anyhow.
"Blackwater Mountain."
In this poem I didn't forgive him.
I do now.
I'm older and less wise.
"That time of evening, weightless and desperate.
When the loon cries, when the small bats jostle
the lake's reflections.
When the green of the oak begins to open its robes
to the dark, the green of water to offer itself to the flames.
When lily and lily pad husband the last light
which flares like a white disease, then disappears.
This is what I remember.
And this, the slap of the jack light on the cove, the freeze
frame of ducks below us.
Your shots, the wounded flop and skid
of one bird to the thick brush.
The moon of your face in the fire's glow.
The cold, the darkness.
Young, wanting approval.
What else could I do?
And did for two hours, waist deep in the lake.
The thicket as black as death.
Without success or reprieve, try.
The stars over Blackwater Mountain
still dangle and flash like hooks and ducks coast
on evening water.
The foliage is like applause.
I stand where we stood before me, my flashlight
down to the lake.
A black deck explodes to my right, hangs and is gone.
He shows me the way to you.
He shows me the way to a different fire
where you, black moon, warm your hands."