Equinox 1980

In the stillness after dawn we two

paddled a noiseless boat

before wakefall across

a bay smooth as a mirror,

changeless as its glass.

Not a whisper of passage.

Hardly a single stir

anywhere below horizon

except for the rippling

wrinkles pushed by our prow

and the faraway swoop and flurry

of a squadron of terns.

The tide at its landward edge

ignited a smudge of commotion,

skittering sandpipers

along the farther shore.

In all the days of our marriage

we had never seen

so unruffled a morning:

never had any event

shimmered with so costly a light

as we ascended the meandering

creek in our sweet boat,

surprising no one except

a bright-eyed otter.

Pushed by mere hints

from our paddles,

we rode up the thickening tide

among heavy wands

of ripe marsh-grass

that wagged seed-bundles

high above our heads.

Neither one speaking,

we rose to go ashore

and lugged away

our featherweight kayak

to winter quarters,

knowing as we stowed it

that this would be the last time,

that we would never set out to sea

together again.

CARL DENNIS