The skeletal beauty of winter is more beautiful than spring. Sticks stick out of the water. The cloudy harbor is remembering things dead in spring. Winter, warm and quiet by the shore, wishes to remember something more. Is it me remembering you---what to remember about you?--- or the whole thing remembering the whole thing? Vegetation growing on the harbor floor doesn't notice the season changing. Reflections of far things in the gently undulating water surprise, like melody, my eyes. I listen to the quiet scene and myself speaking (awed, speaking to myself) as if the landscape (naked trees) were an ear. Rain is warming, in gray lengths, winter. If this is New England at the end of December I don't believe there's anything to fear. Seagulls cry and feed on the low tide. The exposed land of rocks and snails allows me to walk closer to the other shore; I don't need to remember anything more unless my poem would grow heavy with what I saw; details always their own law. After all, you live on the other side of this bay; what do you think they and I might say?