Odds Will Be Done

The small lake, or great pond, hums,
Moans and sighs like a live thing,
Booms, cries out, trapped in its ice—

Whale songs, ape calls, long bird trills
From spring woods at dawn, the talk
We could think came from space ships—

And all from just sun-struck ice.
We, both sets, both folks and words,
Think of voice as what must mean.

Strange ice rings. It does not mean,
And then, it does—it made us,
All that we mean. It means us.