Beaver Island - Katherine Hastings

[Larry Robinson]

Beaver Island

Today at least one hundred swans,
one hundred, at least, floating free
on the ice-cold river. Their necks —
curved and snowy elegance — 
dip their heads and carroty beaks
through the quick-changing light 
skimming the skin of water soon 
to be starlit, the slim sliver of moon 
a partner to the crystalline.
Nearby, a man in camouflage
walks with his back bent to the shore, 
sweeps a detector for coins.
He carries a shovel in case
what he needs isn’t obvious,
isn’t right in front of his eyes.
But I tell you and tell you again:

Today there are one hundred swans,
one hundred, at least, floating free.
I see them in the heart of day.
Their wings are holy fans of light.
Fish and feathers measure their warmth.
Hope will never come to an end
with this world so luminous, our breath 
rising naturally to nested trees.

	- Katherine Hastings