When the French Canadian groundhog
died while hibernating in its den,
its unseen shadow slipped
into the winter night

without a sound.
Then mine and yours
disappear too
into a shroud of clouds

blanketing a stretch
of overcast days.
In the vicinity
of a half-frozen lake,

giddy shouts echo
from a grove
of nearly bare
tamarack trees.

A few stubborn
golden needles
dangle from branches
above a cluster of wild

shadows

detached from their objects.
Finally the subjects
of their own stories,
they cut a hole in the ice

to make a swimming trough.
Diving into the darkness,
they create their own action
without having to tend

to the reaction.
Let them
have their moment,
you whisper.

Mostly human
silhouettes (and one or two
with tails) dart in
and out of the water.