I told myself
to walk as the afternoon wore on.
I head out
looking, listening.
It’s more or less the same time
each day
and yet new details stand out.
I found a small animal skull
its teeth intact
like it had been clenching its jaw.
I study the hanging sycamore seed pods against the sky.
I go to the end of a private road and circle back.
A red tail hawk swoops past between the trees.
I see the reflections of muscular geese landing on the pond.
What reflection
do the geese see?
Lines for Winter
Tell yourself
as it gets cold and gray falls from the air
that you will go on
walking, hearing
the same tune no matter where
you find yourself—
inside the dome of dark
or under the cracking white
of the moon’s gaze in a valley of snow.
Tonight as it gets cold
tell yourself
what you know which is nothing
but the tune your bones play
as you keep going. And you will be able
for once to lie down under the small fire
of winter stars.
And if it happens that you cannot
go on or turn back
and you find yourself
where you will be at the end,
tell yourself
in that final flowing of cold through your limbs
that you love what you are.
–Mark Strand, from Selected Poems, 1979, in New Selected Poems (Alfred A. Knopf, 2007)