Crepuscule
Richard Weaver

Across the lake paired mallards
are swimming green as aged copper
in the graying light of morning.
So is there a boat frozen
in the shadows of an evergreen.
In such ways does the ice seek to bend
the boat’s silver hull. This is the skilled
violence of perception. The poverty
of dawn. In such a way do the trees
make teasing gestures and a bat skitter
into the gray-white fog now lifting.

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