Jim Kacian

twilight and

I am waiting for him in the kayak. I’m reading a small book of poetry I have brought with me, not watching, but alert. When he comes, I hear the soft plink of him breaking the surface, unmistakable as a bird call. He sees me immediately, of course, and signals to his mate, still in the lodge, with a call like the first four notes of Für Elise: a falling semitone, then repeated, rasped as though played on a kazoo. She chucks a couple of times, and I never do see her. He disappears, and I turn the boat around and wait, and 30, 40 seconds later, he pops up, turning the dusk light into a series of small waves which flow toward me, bearing light, and pass right through me on into the darkening east.

I am the center
of the perfect circle
the beaver swims