The Long River

The musk-ox smells in his long head my boat coming. When I feel him there, intent, heavy, the oars make wings in the white night, and brave woods are close on either side where trees darken.

I rowed past towns in their black sleep to come here. I passed the northern grass and cold mountains.

The musk-ox moves when the boat stops, in hard thickets. Now the wood is dark with old pleasures.