The Kitchen and the Lake
Above the invisible lake, the kitchen is gray and grainy;
ghost appliances hum among charcoal cabinets
with blind black handles, a function of touch.
The window is locked with a bronze age blade,
or a grind stone, pitted and resistant.
Down there, in the angle between dawn and morning,
a heron wades through the white air, remote as Cygnus.
Serene and alert, he is darkening his space like the float of a leaf.
Push hard and open the swollen frame; let the wet cotton air come in
like a wheedling cat, that rubs you with the smell of oak leaf tea
steeping dark in the hollows that spill fog onto the obscure water.
Minnows and sleeping birds rotate in slow spirals on the breath of the fog.