Impressions at Tully Lake

Everyone who knows me bestis gone. I walk the pine needlepaths of the island—a kind of body,sinking in a grave lake.Before the dam, it was a hillon connected land. The treestake up residence in an alternatespace—reflections in water,rippling impressions of themselves.How we revere our ghosts:the reflections shimmer so. Once,I saw a snake here, silent in the branchesof a wild blueberry bush. She staredat me with those devil eyes—I was perhaps the first womanshe'd seen, and I was temptedto reach toward her. If she struck,I'd have proof— my alive hand, the blood.Or it's possible she never really saw me,only perceived me in shadow, the shapeof me laid out darkly on the ground.