BY AMORAK HUEY
Blanched light before sunrise. Stony mist clings
to glass-dark surface, the last cool moment.
On the opposite shore, an elm-choked point,
a doe appears as if conjured. She sips,
then walks right into the water and swims
the thousand feet to the near shore, serene,
no sign of the churning her spindly legs
must do. Our greatest efforts go unseen.
I fear I will never remember this
perfectly enough to tell you: From here
her head has just the shape of a rabbit
walking on water. Dawn cracks the shell
of the eastern sky,
lake already failing the mist.
Amorak Huey recently left the newspaper business to teach writing at Grand Valley State University in Michigan. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in The Southern Review, Rattle, Linebreak, Redivider, and other journals. Three of his poems published in 2010 were nominated by editors for The Pushcart Prize.