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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required June 11, 2016 I sit on the balcony of a research station in Georgian Bay, disconnected from the world. The vast waters open up before me, with the rocky beach expanding off to each side, A blue sky ahead dappled with little white tufts, the sun slowly retreating to the west. I am engulfed by cedars, spruce, birch, aspen... Surrounded by waxwings, vireos, sparrows, robins, warblers, chickadees… And though I thought of nothing when I stepped out onto this balcony, I find myself seeing us – you, me, and humanity – in everything around me. There is the ever-present thunder of waves pounding the shores. Deceivingly pristine, looking warm and peaceful on the surface, But with tumbled rocks – evidence of a tumultuous past – visible just below. The predictability of the powerful waves is comforting. It is familiar yet humbling, and exposes our imperfect human traits. Like a mistake we repeat over and over – ‘history is destined to repeat itself’. Though initially it seems different each time, the end result is the same: we get drenched. The songs of the many birds compete for the attention of mates, Like the voices of seven billion people all trying to be heard in some form or other; As with the birds, some are heard louder than the rest, And there are some who will remain forever unheard from where we are standing. In the trees I watch the leaves flutter – particularly characteristic of the trembling aspen. I remember how we feel together, running our fingers along our skin so as to barely touch, As if we would shatter like glass into a thousand pieces. The wind taunts sea birds seeking to land, and appears to enjoy rustling the trees. Hundreds of Sandhill cranes take a rest on the alvar from their migration, They seem to tiptoe unknowingly across this precious landscape of moss microcosms, Like many who pass their lives not seeing or appreciating the subtleties of human interaction. The sun paints the horizon – a woman in red and gold waiting to be forever chased. The Bay is choppy, yet I can see us staring back at me in everything. The picture of imperfection. A perfect reflection.
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