The call of the paddle


North Rusagonis River

What inner urge compels me
down to the river's shore,
to where my boat propels me
amid the rapids' roar?

I am a nine-to-fiver,
cooped-up, controlled and bermed,
but when I'm on the river,
my joy is reconfirmed.

Sitting on the saddle,
my glutes upon the cane,
my weight upon the paddle,
I am restored again.

I seek the quiet spaces
where alders part to reveal
the secret perfect places
too beautiful to be real.

Though stream be quick and narrow,
I do not feel closed in.
My soul flies like a sparrow
above the rush and din.

The river elemental,
beyond our keenest reckoning.
Its rhythm is eternal,
forever calling, beckoning.

Tho' life be fickle and fleeting,
uncharted destiny,
the river is true and trusting,
and always there for me.

Nanook of the Nashwaak
 Reach out and touch a rock


White River, New Hampshire

My Brother Across the Ages

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