PHOTOGRAPHER'S JOURNAL (Written while walking early yesterday in the cold beside Lake Waramaug. The picture was made at a different time and place.)
The first stirred branches,lifting a mist of crystal snowthat sailed due east,a spectral galleon over the water.
Another careenedamong the white pines,unsure which way to turn andtrailing a whirling, white mantilla.
Where do they come from?Where do they go?Who is the conjurer?
A third bore downalong the shoreand a sandstorm of snowskated on ice
through a stillness made immenseby an endless sky of slateand the banter of treetop crowson a far-off, faded shore.