THE OTHER MAINE

By Donald Crane

I went up Columbus Day weekend
to close out the camp for the winter.

I dragged the dock up on shore,
nailed the heavy wooden shutters over
the windows, and made a search around
for any scraps of food that might draw
a hungry bear or wild cat.

Gone was the fish hawk that had perched
on the outer limb of the dead spruce,
sharing the little lake with the sleek brown
bodies of my eight year old and ten year
old—

The shy loon that came in the night and tolled
eleven o'clock for us as we snuggled deeper
into our blankets—

The resiney-wineish smell of mosses
in the deep woods baking under an August
sun.

Now, the little waves dancing on the shore
showed their teeth;

Red maple leaves skittered through
the dead stalks of asters and goldenrod
with the rustle of dry bones;

Steel grey clouds hung over Carson's
Ridge all day, and the wind over the lake
drove me inside twice to warm my hands
over the stove.

Even old Charlie at the Crossroads Store,
where I stopped for cigarettes on the way
out, looked at this fleeing outlander
with the cold eyes of winter.



 

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