After Tomas Tranströmer’s “Midwinter”

The moon’s horn sounds 

its silver chord, sending  

them into my summer woods 

thick with possibility.

Then: the rain-slick river.

The ashen world above

muffled, water fills their ears 

with its wily whisper: Let go 

in the crack of the current. 

Their ancestors’ voices swell.

Gurgle of fish, human exhalation. 

It’s in the surfacing, I think, 

where they also smuggle the dead

across the border.