From New Hampshire

     It's not your mountain 
     but I almost expect 
     to meet you here 

I think you have taken a long late evening walk 
Your heavy shoes glisten with dew 
I hear your footsteps pause on the dirt road 

     and I know you are picking out 
     the dark mass of the sleeping 
     mountain from the dark 

mass of night and testing the heaviness of each 
Your hands are small but they know weights and measures 
You are a connoisseur of boundaries 

     You loved the bears 
     because they pass between 
     leaving their stories 

in fat pudding turds on the grass 
Here it's raspberries they're after not our 
sour Vermont apples     No matter     You will find them 

     When they hoot in courtship 
     you always hoot back 
     more owl than bear 

They don't mind     They always answer you 
And tonight I imagine you're out waiting up for them 
by the berries, which is why you don't cross 

     the dew-sopped lawn 
     don't press open the 
     warped screen door 

of the kitchen where I sit late     by a single glowing bulb