On a Saturday afternoon in the football season,

I lie in a bed near the lake,

And dream of moles with golden wings.

While the depth of the water trembles on the ceiling,

Like the tail of an enraged bird,

I watch the dust floating above the bed, content.

I think of ships leaving lonely harbors,

Dolphins playing far at sea,

Fish with the faces of old men come in from a blizzard.

A dream of moles with golden wings

Is not so bad; it is like imagining

Waterfalls of stone deep in mountains,

Or a wing flying alone beneath the earth.

I know that far out in the Minnesota lake

Fish are nosing the mouths of cold springs,

Whose water causes ripples in the sleeping sand,

Like a spirit moving in a body.

It is Saturday afternoon. Crowds are gathered,

Warmed by the sun, and the pure air.

I thought of this strange mole this morning,

After sleeping all night by the lake.