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 By Margo Van Kuren, a psychotherapist and freelance writer in Manchester, CT. She visits Concord as often as possible. Her e-mail address is margvk@netzero.net.  I like to think of himAdrift in his boat at night Held in the pure deep palm of the pond Playing his flute to the perch Who followed him, wide-eyed, Dazed and enchanted Moonlight glancing off the silver flute Glinting on flashing fins; Skittery moon never still in the ripples. Frogs and turtles in their silty beds Blinked and wondered at the song. Others, too, heard it In the steep amphitheater of the pond: The looming shore bristling with Pitch pine, oak, and ears. Crickets listened, and the stricken deer paused In their browsing of the nodding leaves. The owl, the fox, the undulating skunk, The ghosts of Indians, silent on the footpaths. Some townspeople heard it on a scrap of wind And the rattling night train bore through it. Now a pile of stones grows near His cabin by the cove. You could count the rings of the trees and find The summer when they heard his flute. Would those rings be fuller, finer? These trees heard, and this very stone I set to clattering on the cairn.
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