In Fate

Boats in winter
some masts straight
others slant,
some silver, some black
the harbour is bleak at night.

Birds believe those mountains
lining the other side
could hitch up
their twinkling lights
and walk across the lake.

Old men that sit
on benches, some straight
some leaning forward
into thought, listen to the rattle
of pulleys and clinks of masts.

Lights begin to wink
from the other side
of the lake.

They appear, stars,
so close the men could rattle them
in their hands, throw them
like dice.