Ten degrees at sunrise, light snow flying.

The beaver’s mound of brush and cornstalks 
stands at the edge of silence this morning,
a pyramid on an untracked desert of snow
with black, open water shining beyond it.
Somewhere inside are the hidden mysteries:
an old yellow-toothed pharaoh, wrapped up
in bandages of sleep, and on his shallow breath,
oily odor of tanbark and the priceless perfume
of summer willow leaves.