Skip to main content
We slip into the tippy canoe
paddle out of summer’s cove
on our way to the mouth of the river,
jump at the gunshot of a beaver’s tail
when the first bats streak the sky
and the forest curves around us
both above and below the waterline,
our oars alert to hard-to-spot frogs
crouched on moon-shaped lily pads.
Before the shore recedes
I glance back at the sculptures
we erected on the beach.
The August moon has waned and now
a September wind blows eddies of dust
new dunes and drifts of russet leaves
to repossess that stretch of shore
and the lake rolls its shoulders
to erase our wake.
We were intruders, given notice.
The singing wind no longer sings
or warns us of rapids ahead,
it brings the drone of distant traffic
while the river trails hurry us downstream
toward our urban burrows.