South Shore

The water, unlocked finally
from winter's grip,
threads itself in and out
of the caves,

the open mouths
in these red cliffs;
the sound of it, a heartbeat
or a native drum.

Standing on the soft earth
high above the lake,
I feel the rhythm
entering my bloodstream
through the bottoms of my feet.

Last night, under
the spell of the moon,
the lake became a crowd
of rustling skirts,
like tulle and satin
on a thousand
waltzing girls.

Today, at the commanding
of the wind,
she is a cannon's boom.
The fish are spinning
and she will not
be contained.

Every time I leave,
I go against my inclination
and my gravity.
Whatever I am doing
in some other place,
I feel the pull of this
primordial pulse.