At Beech Lake in spring, a young woman is drawn to the water to watch snakes, noticing that they all circle the shore in the same counterclockwise direction. The next day she fashions a snare from a fly rod and catches one. She feels proud as she touches the twisting common water snake, but it bites the base of her thumb. Shamefaced, she lets it go, and it simply resumes its swim as if nothing has happened. She ends on her knees among the sedges, forgetting the rod and watching fishermen in the beech shade, her hand still throbbing. The mood is quiet, wry, and slightly humbled: youthful curiosity and pride meet the cool indifference of an animal that will not perform for her. The poem leaves her as an observer rather than a captor, attentive to the lake’s calm, ongoing life.
Beech Lake — Summary
Spring, and spring of her life also. She walks to water to stand behind sedges, thinking of snakes. And snakes come. First one, lazily, tail sculling, head high, counterclockwise along shore, and then another. And then -- another. All going, she notes, the same way round. Next day, incorrigible child, she rigs a black fly rod with stout green line tied, butt end and tip end: a snare. Back to the sun-long lake. The snakes continue their rounds. She casts loop, she waits.
One comes, riding high in clear water, black eye bright. Caught, the looping, livid thing bends the rod double almost. On close inspection she speaks its given name: common water snake. Proudly she touches the twisting ribbon of flesh, but it turns to sink four quiet rows of teeth deep in the base of her thumb. Shamefaced, she lets the bright creature go; it swims sedately, maddeningly counter-clockwise: nothing has happened to change its agenda. Rod forgotten, she sinks to her knees among sedges to watch fishing men quietly fishing in beech-shade, shading her eyes with her still throbbing hand.