610
PARTISAN REVIEW
The mystic and blue-tinged, tangential moonlight,
Which in unshadowed vastness breathes northward.
Such great space must once
Have been a lake, now, long ages, ice-solid.
Shadows shift from the whiteness of forest, small
As they move on the verge of moon-shaven distance.
They grow clear,
As binoculars find the hairline adjustment .
They seem to drift from the purity of forest.
Single, snow-dusted above, each shadow appears, each
Slowly detached from the white anonymity
Of forest, each hulk
Lurching, each lifted leg leaving a blackness as though
Of a broken snowshoe partly withdrawn. We know
That the beast's foot spreads like a snowshoe to support
That weight, that bench-kneed awkwardness.
The heads heave and sway. It must be with spittle
That jaws are ice-bearded. The shoulders
Lumber on forward, as though only the bones could,
inwardly,
Guess destination. The antlers,
Blunted and awkward, are carved by some primitive
craftsman.
We do
~ot
know on what errand they are bent, to
What mission committed. It is a world that
They live in, and it is their life.
They move through the world and breathe destiny.
Their destiny is as bright as crystal, as pure
As a dream of zero. Their destiny
Must resemble happiness even though
They do not know that name.
I lay the binoculars on the lap of the biologist. He
Studies distance. The co-pilot studies a map. He glances at
A compass . At mysterious dials. I drink coffee. Courteously,
The binoculars come back to me.
I have lost the spot. I find only blankness.
But
They must have been going somewhere .
SH:
This is a poem which touches some deep part in me personally,
but I think it enters into a deep impersonal place of stillness through
