今天早晨，什么东西螃蟹似的
横着穿过雪地。
什东西在我们的干草地上
走得艰难又缓慢。
也可能是一只浣熊
用力拖着一只小背包，
也许是一只豪猪
拿着一副网球拍
也可能是灵活如一只红狐
的东西
拖着一只黑冠夜苍鹭和
一只滴答淌血的瘸腿的丘鹬。
隐秘的十个蹄花
那些骨头就是种子，现在
纯洁如婴儿的牙齿
在地洞里排成一列
我穿着雪地鞋穿越
那鞋巧妙地用
走在前面别的什么东西
的皮和筋编织成。
Something went crabwise
across the snow this morning.
Something went hard and slow
over our hayfield.
It could have been a raccoon
lugging a knapsack,
it could have been a porcupine
carrying a tennis racket,
it could have been something
supple as a red fox
dragging the squawk and spatter
of a crippled woodcock.
Ten knuckles underground
those bones are seeds now
pure as baby teeth
lined up in the burrow.
I cross on snowshoes
cunningly woven from
the skin and sinews of
something else that went before.
“The Presence” by Maxine Kumin from Selected Poems 1960-1990. © Norton, 1997. Reprinted with permission.
