Sunrise almost without color.

Later, the sun in clear sky

a knife-point:

nothing dim.

Unbending, immaculate pressure.

Whom shall I fault

if I droop?

The lone skunk

nosing her prow

from cabin to

shed, boathouse,

lodge, peaceably cleaved

a slow arcing curve

around the aspen or birch

I leaned against.

Despite the streak

between her eyes

and the impressive wake

striping her body black,

white, black, white, black,

she was hugely calm.

Not happy: aware

of her competence.

She did not spray.

I may have flinched.

Any noise I made wasn’t much,

the ripple of her passing.