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Blackwater Mountain That time of evening, weightless and disparate, When the loon cries, when the small bass Jostle the lake's reflections, when The green of the oak begins To open its robes to the dark, the green Of water to offer itself to the flames, When lily and lily pad Husband the last light Which flares like a white disease, then disappears: This is what I remember. And this: The slap of the jacklight on the cove; The freeze-frame of ducks Below us; your shots; the wounded flop And skid of one bird to the thick brush; The moon of your face in the fire's glow; The cold; the darkness. Young, Wanting approval, what else could I do? And did, for two hours, waist-deep in the lake, The thicket as black as death, Without success or reprieve, try. The stars over Blackwater Mountain Still dangle and flash like hooks, and ducks Coast on the evening water; The foliage is like applause. I stand where we stood before and aim My flashlight down to the lake. A black duck Explodes to my right, hangs, and is gone. He shows me the way to you; He shows me the way to a different fire Where you, black moon, warm your hands. 38 ...

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