UNEXPECTED GUESTS

When the light changes in the late afternoon I go down through the pinewoods to the lake at the bottom of the hill. I go to the canoe asleep on its side and lift it into the water.

The canoe is long and very heavy. It is made of wood and canvas. The forest green paint is cracked and torn. It is an Old Town. "They don't make them like that anymore."

On the left side of the prow, I have written your name in golden letters peeled off one by one, aligned just so: Anthony Lacey. English to the bone, you were uneasy in the water but not on it. Every time we set out from shore, we could have been launching ourselves from chalk cliffs toward the New World.

I settle into the stern and push the paddle against the mud, head out towards the marsh hidden on the far shore. I am not alone. Once there was a shrew quivering under the seat pulsing in gray whiskered fear; once a bright green grasshopper leaped from the bow and drowned itself. Today, there is a long black snake coiling itself like seaworthy rope, surprised into movement as the boat takes to the water. I slide the paddle under the snake and present it to the beach on the other side. It takes its chance and writes its name upon the water - then erases itself from my sight.

I lose myself in the channel of grass concealing the harbor of the marsh. The sun is low on the rim of the mountains; a swallow dances through the air. Once, we paddled here at twilight, went as far as we could go, drifted up to the beavers’ dam and the low waterfall. A dark square head broke through the surface, silver beads of water dripping from its fur, took our breath into its keen brown eye staring back at us. As soon as we recognized each other, disappeared. Next night we returned with our cameras at the ready, waited patiently for hours; we were never granted another audience again.

The canoe finds its way to the beaver's dam.
I put down the paddle and, as the first stars shine through,
wait for you to show me your face again.