The Swaggering Schroon
Paddle down, it’s before noon,
on the winding river Schroon,
still see a sliver of the moon,
hear the maddened cry on loons…
Meandering through forest,
no wind here, the sky’s at rest,
mallard upstream, quite well-dressed,
onwards the canoe I press.
Ahead is a sandy spit,
stop and eat lunch for a bit,
through the branches, sparrows flit,
calm sounds soothe my tired wits.
Back to the canoe I go,
above aged mountains grow,
pass a camp-site, say,”Hello,’
following Schroon River’s flow.
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