The waterfall at Wee Sandy on the other side
Of the lake was the loudest sound at night,
A sound as steady as an electric motor
Whirring rather quietly. Occasionally
A chip truck would pass by on the highway
High above this side of the lake, a whoosh.
The twin creeks feeding the bay, right
And left of the cabin, purled in whispers.
The birds had gone quiet. No actual engines
Could be heard--not on the water, not
In the air. The deck smelled of fresh-sawed
Cedar. One amber light could be seen
Well down the shore to the south. The moon
Was crescent and waxing. Daughter
Was inside, on a pallet, sleeping. The night
Was almost over before it was begun.
A composition is a juxtaposition of shifting
Planes, a slowing, a selection to slow things
Down. But the holdfast days go only faster.
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