16 DECEMBER 1972, Page 16

Too Much •

A quick man he was, nimble, Steady, lorn, slant.

Walked his trap line daily, Silence-hooded, jingling.

Snared rabbits, shot deer, Dressed meat, stretched hides, Avoided owls. Knife-strokes Calendared the doorpost, left by those before; None had stayed long.

Forty knife-strokes more he lasted, Until the morning when he saw, Great in white feathers, brown-speckled, Silent on a black branch The one from the north. Russell Hoban