Algonquin Park
by Kenneth Hada

    I am sitting on a rocky island
    no bigger than an efficiency apartment in the city.
    Facing west into a crisp breeze, I await sunset.
    Waves splash against my feet,
    an occasional energetic one reaches higher to my thighs,
    but I do not move.
    I am alone on this collection of rock
    piled against the darkness of the surrounding deep.
    Perched on this unmapped anomaly
    that looks something like a prop on a stage,
    I sit in quiet amidst the blue green wildness.
    A heron usually roosts in the highest of the three scraggly pines
    on this precipice but he is not here.
    He'll return at sundown to fish.
    I have taken all the goggle-eye that I want from his waters.
    Drawing them out of the jagged descent about this island,
    I consider their subterranean endurance.
    I am alone except for a wary loon
    who observes me from a safe distance
    though she gives the impression of minding her own business.
    I remember the midnight cries of loons stationed about this park.
    Their daytime demeanor belies their haunted voice
    but I welcome the lonesome sound.
    I feel the immense forest surrounding me.
    Her foreboding spirit welcomes me.
    I sit alone and I wonder just how it is
    that I came to be on this rock.






Copyright 2018 by Red River Review. First Rights Reserved. All other rights revert to the authors.
No work may be reproduced or republished without the express written consent of the author.