Algonquin MAG

By Unknown, Unknown, Unknown

   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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