Out of Season 

We trespass.
Our tire tracks mar untrammeled white.
The car door slams.
Crows rise from bare beach
and knotty pine
to chastise us.

The house is still.
Icicles hang in sheltered eaves.
A slow drip,
drip punctuates
the silence of sun on snow.

We walk down to the dock.
Dry leaves and gnarled roots
emerge from the path.
Lichen, painted in grays and greens,
cling to smooth rock.

Diamonds dance 
across the surface of the lake.
Beneath the ice
murky water hides its life well.

From first frost through spring thaw
we are the interlopers here.
We try to fill the emptiness
with echoes of summer.

The day watches us, warily.
We follow our footprints
back to the car. Fresh snow 
will smooth them away.