Sunday Canoeing With Thoreau
gently under concordian hymn's, drifting through handwritten currents.
where willows weave their lengthy signatures drawn across the calm collection of a bristled
pool. a library of leaves lies around the trees knotted trunks, dry and crumbling. tossed
carelessly and thumbed through by the knowing wind each one placed indefinitely like an
obscere character in a dusty warn old novel or myth.
they tell in their darkened shades secrets of the ways of the squirell's. who gather from
treetop canopy's climbing down to rocky shorelines to lower their heads in an early morning
baptismal reverance.
they search with tiny hands through the soil's cyclical chambers. like hindu children along
the ganges, whose red dotted foreheads seem to perennially sprout throughout the fields of
wildflowers. impossible to number as i float by in the marrow of a lone pine whose stern now
breaks over the fellowship of several large mouth bass who came to hear the reverend
speak, turning in his low tones through stone pulpit channel's.
now the oak pew becomes a paddle, so i tithe a little in a swirl. sitting with a hardbound
copy of thoreau next to me and a piece of dark rye in a paper bag, together we break bread
and drift slowly in an unsteady tide.
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