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.