Never the Dawn

DRIFT, drift — do not lift
Your birch pole from the river.
Let the arrow grasses grow
In their reedy quiver.
Let the arrow grasses grow
In their moveless shallow
Underneath the moonstrung bow
Of a leaning willow.

Slow, slow — do not turn
Near that clump of arrows.
On each side the fox fires burn
Warning of the narrows.
Drift, drift — do not pause
Where those arrows sway.
Who would see them bring to earth
The dead white bird of day?