Midwinter, the river

has two zones:

an ice corridor

and open water.

Up by the island, though,

the ice wins like a shut door.

Our summer souls

are out there —

something diaphanous

sifted into the sharp

clear cold. The glide

of our canoe through still water

on the island’s far side

only now leaves its wake.

Walking along the bank,

I feel the silence

tap me, as if about

to break.