Canoeing Song

I go canoeing with Pauline Johnson.
I take the bow; she, the stern.

Port/starboard; stroke on stroke—
we paddle in unison; our liquid song:

wings dipped in silvered glass.
Behind us: cottages diminish,

below the shore’s receding line;
trees rendered en grisaille.

No wind; no wave, we skim
the skin of sky. When

dawn mists lift, we drift toward
the narrows, our paddles lazing

across the gunwales, blades raining
freshwater pearls; beneath the depths:

the slender shadow of our hull
darkening granite-— boulders

coughed from earth’s bright core.
Somewhere up lake,

a heron fans open steel wings;
the loon cries, vanishes.

I twist round—- she’s still there,
sitting on the stern’s worn thwart;

against starched cotton, her bear-
claw necklace reflecting first rays.

The rising breeze takes my cap;
steals stray wisps from her bun.

How long do we drift? Without a word,
she grasps her paddle’s shaft;

a back sweep directs us home.
I go canoeing with Pauline Johnson.

I take the bow; she, the stern.
Port/starboard; stroke on stroke—

we paddle in unison; our liquid song:
wings dipped in silvered glass.