Sunday, August 21

on the lake

watching donovan swimming

This little ontario cabin is one that my family has been going to for ages. I found one of my grandmother's patchwork potholders there, from the years when she used to bring her sewing machine with her. The cupboard was filled with pyrex mugs and little aluminium drinking cups just like we use for camping. I kept finding things that made it seem like it was already home.

The great blue heron was there, and the turtles, and the kingfisher. At night we sat down on the dock and watched the gibbous moonrise and listened to the ever-beautiful call of the loons, while the beaver slapped his tail at us.

If the loons called at night, I leapt out of bed and ran to the window to listen for as long as they tremolo'd.


the reads

the smallest inchworm

Walking out of the cabin, the lake was there before us. Its moods became a part of our day. The winds brushed the cedars, the hummingbirds had their wars over the feeder, the osprey carried a fish by, the loons circled the lake.

sitting by the lake
I see a turtle's head
but it is a leaf

fish jump at night
like pennies tossed
into a fountain

the slimmest
most invisible violin

a dark shape
crosses the moon's path -
beaver night-swimming