Horizon

from Field Stones
by Robert Kinsley

What enters us never leaves us,
its small hard pit, sticking somewhere

near the heart of bone.  We've come back
again and again, as I've come back

to this lake near dawn,
the sky an estuary of light

that seeps in, as sleep moves
away from the mind of day.

I'm fishing for that small hard pit,
the morning nudging me along.

If there is a center it is
in the dark bell of cricket,

in the songbird in the tree,
even in the water where

the body of snake repeats its first letter,
form as a steady sign, coiled and ready.