The lake is brawny at this cove, the woods thick
and rocks cast about like trucks in the yard.
Angus has thrown up twice at the edge of the water,
in the patch of new-sown grass--hay-scattered,
tender green begins. The sun is low somewhere
around a curved shoreline, but the clear-lighted sky
screens his black yawning mouth and the jutting stuff
of his belly, turned sour. He lies now
and leans his head back, as though too heavy
to keep it forward to the clean and filmy lake.

Somewhere out there the ducks have nested.
Angus and Tundra have hunted without harm
to see the nest: it is strong and littered
with the things of living--shells, stink, and feathers.
Somewhere Tundra wanders, not far, maybe in the truckbed
James has loaded demolished outbuildings in today.
Angus makes a pretty sound. The occasional low beginnings
in his throat are a burden, as though he yodels
or would sing all parts. But when the tone comes pure,
the light weakens, and this day of his soft belly
draws down, turns tender for the strength.
The imperturbable moon cannot hear.