Ice gong Stockbridge Bowl
Tucked in to a curve of the gold shore, out of the wind, breasting the lake.
Here the play of ice, water, sun,
flight of needled shadows sweeping pale stones
dash of water rippling across ice.
In this I am warm.
Beneath the tall hemlocks
it’s a Sheltie, black and white
jumping at me
claws sharp and cold.
I know the woman who holds the leash
And because it’s so cold
and my hands are bare
I sink both hands into the dogs fur.
The dog rolls onto my hands
melts, as if to say
I want nothing so much as you.
What I heard was ice.
“WHOMP” across the taut drum of the lake, shuddering, recovering. And then
“Clonk” or was it “Clang” ever so faint and low
chunk of ice jostled by waves.
I think it was the ice gong ringing.