The canoe drifted on an Adirondack lake
that might have a name
or just a number.
Both passengers were slouched down
as far as possible,
while still being visible.
The clouds were so low, grey and complete
that they hid the tops of the mountains,
turned most of the rest of them into
Shadows
and almost convinced you it was going
to snow.
Only the trees
—Holding the colored leaves close to their chests,
instead of standing with them scattered around their ankles—
convinced me that it was too early.

The woman's arm hung over the
side of the boat, her hand
drifting in the water.
These people are either dead,
I thought,
or far too caught up in the works
of the Pre-Raphaelites.

Then the man got up,
Slowly,
and started paddling. The woman spoke,
Gestured with her hands.
They were both alive for now.

The cloud and water and trees and
Distance
muffled, distorted, ate the
Murmur of the woman and the wake.

They left later that night,
canoe strapped to the roof-rack,
Headed West.

I never noticed how many
people were in that car.