The Boat House

on stilts. The sixty or so birds that make up
the neighbourhood cannot make holes
in the ice. The house built on the lake
for boats or ducks or otters is now stranded
on dry water, can be reached on foot. Speaking
to each other, the wood cut years ago submits
to the ice that was born yesterday. A train passes
like a wild boar and is swallowed by silence.
On the ice, objects: a toy car, a plug attached
to a cut cable (choked on its copper spew),
a baseball hat embroidered with Toronto’s
clean cut blue jay, and an open-mouthed
video recorder. When we stepped onto the lake
I did not feel it creak or heave. The rock I pitched
jarred like a spade on flint. There were prints, too,
a dance of invisible gulls, the belly-dragging scoop
of a pregnant cat, and, always going towards
the boat house, two upright unknown animals.