Going west we saw geese mallards and grebes
wet plumes and tails and beaks, copper and gold bills
dipping in the sun.
Next to you next to the waterfowl next to God
in this canoe, lost in the lake's numinous calls,
in the dancing of loons;
in the black and white geometry of lines, circles,
rectangles and squares, music filled hollow bones
with copper and gold marrow.
With a pick pole and a sculling stroke, a fifty year old
bowman lifted a beavertail blade cleanly in water,
straightening the craft with a mysterious stroke
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