Arbutus

The white reflection
of the setting moon
is a straight path
of rounded shiny stones
stepping across
big water
restless
even in calm
fording toward the
quiet dark mass
of the main island
where the night's
minor lights
shimmer and blink
random Morse
from another world.

I damp back the fire
in the woodstove
savouring
the last
cup of coffee
the last
of the day's
hard-won warmth
before
the salty chill's
insinuating
thin fingers
deftly begin
to pry their way
into this house.

From somewhere high
up
in the branches
of the tallest
arbutus tree
in these dark woods
we share
the raven rasps
a hoarse goodnight
that echoes
then nests down
into a quiet bed
of red pine needles
on the soft forest floor.