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.