Cold
Biting my bones
The winter cold crisp blue is upon me and my heart longs for a canoe and a deep black northern lake...Jack pines hang secretly from crevices in rock I don’t know how...A loon cries it’s blues through morning mist hanging like ghosts of past northern wanderers and my eyes squint at the rising east...silvery fish rise to the surface for morning food...and my lungs with an eternal deep breath takes in vast unknown stories of those before us....perhaps the blues in the mist is in fact the cry of an ancient shaman now formed as our beloved loon...and the jack pine remains I don't know how…
Brisk Algonquin Day