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First skaters, Perkins Pier

With thaw and cold, the early winter snow lay In bmwmsh patches on the holds, inspected fly the crows, and though the olive-colored xs ater Still mushroomed up and mottled the center Of our lake with obscure streaks and bruises. They came that Sunday, after early worship, With skates across their shoulders, and, lacing up, Debated who should be first that war to try The ice that nudged the pier and breakwater. Nearby. dinghies leaned against a summer stand. And, on the point, a lighthouse stood, mute Until the spring. At last, three boys moved Their shaky weight dispatching splits and groans That. for a moment, stilled them in their tracks. I turned, then, hack to coffee and the paper, But, glancing up, saw to my surprise and wonder The harbor tilled an hour later with the pirouettes Of a dozen figure skaters.'svith wobbling children Bundled up to twice their size, and the slap And dash of a pick-up hockey match. All of it, The smallness of the figures, the galvanized, Gray sky and snow that eddied in a devil's dance Low across the ice, recalled that in our latitude Miracles arc not at hand, virtue lies in moderation, And one must Icarn to care for ordinary things: The tufted sparrow, washed-out moon, or unlovely child.

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