This Year
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Sand Point was under water.
The birch tree that grew on the edge
of the rocks, taken. Deer, I'm told, walked
through town, fur stretched
over trembling bones, trading fear for food.
On the mound of lichen-covered rocks
I call my island, the mouse skull hidden
in a small cave between rocks
is missing this year, after so many years.
The winters are hard up here.

When God comes lumbering out of the woods,
nose to the air, he looks sleek. He pays us
no mind. He's eaten heartily this winter, the black
coat well-oiled. He heads straight
for the roadside to set his claws into the red
nipples of the thimbleberries.