Hunt on the Lake

A bird, eyes fixed. Hunger.
A cormorant erect with threat.
Utterly still the lake’s surface,
blue from sorrow wept.

The dark beat of the wings
darkly cleaves the blue.
In the bill the slashed fish
flashes in the cold.

The day is gray with dying.
We’re alone. We don’t say a word.
A certain mute understanding
is driving us apart.