The Dam Broke In Quebec

The dam broke in Quebec. My thoughts, my words, and my pen all moved. Moved like the thin layer of brackish water over the icy depths of le Fleave St. Laurent. Moved like the evening breeze over the cobblestoned streets past the lighted shops’ doors. Moved like the flags flying over le Chateau Frontenac as the high winds whip. The French from the tongues of the waitresses and bartenders and patrons, and the strums and songs of the brickwall guitarist, all worked as white noise, and the glasses of wheat beer, the plate of white cheese and cold red grapes, and the warm amber candles, were all sustenance to the soul to move my pen across the notebook and break the dam.