Algonquin
By Bryan W., ,
I will push off
leaving a wet shoe print on the rock,
the only trace remaining
of the camp we made here.
A few pine needles will fall
from the fiberglass sides
to be dispersed by the chaotic waves
of the cold gray morning.
The canoe will lurch so slightly
but with my first stroke
it will glide forward,
slicing through the crests.
The wind will buffet my face
and my flimsy jacket will flap
just until we round the point
and reach the open lake.
And then we'll ride before the wind,
you and I.
You'll hold a piece of the tent
up as a makeshift sail.
Hundreds of feet from either shore,
the water, the sky will be ours.
As the sun breaks through
to warm our backs we'll shed
several layers and our shoes.
We'll switch sides as we tire
from the rhythm and regimen.
Just then we'll leap aground for lunch
in some marshy inlet.
A dry rock will be our table
and we'll sink our toes
into the warm mud.
A dragonfly will circle.
Lazily we'll lie back,
you and I,
and think ahead as I do now,
past the two mile portage
to the howls of the wolves
at starry midnight.
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