Saint Paul, 6 November 2005
No backhoe bucket lays bare
An amber-bottled cure for aging
The backcountry beguiles you
Treeless above the timberline
You peek over rocky margins
Feetfirst to an alpine pool
Called No Man’s Lake
You reckon each contour line
On maps you’ll never re-fold
Seeing water so deep and so clear
Mountain-starved fingerlings
Gesture toward your waves
Deigning to nibble at your corn