Maybe the rippled surface of the lake
is a gateway to stars in a different sky,
and maybe the probing of pike nosing
through roe deer bones, marrow suckling,
is invocation of an appeal to the cosmos.
Maybe you’ll hear our wretched prayers?
In our furs and our antlers, we pay tribute,
while soft voice of fluid dynamics whispers
kisses on pebbled beaches. Combing this
shore we find a knapped shard of flint,
we etch linear sequences, gouge into bone;
sparks from your pyrite ignite into stars,
from cooking fire rise like mirrored snow,
in lake’s mirrored surface, to heavens below.
L
Lake
