Burnt Hill brook at its confluence with the Miramichi
The call of the paddle
What inner urge compels me
down to the river's shore,
to where my boat propels me
amid the rapids' roar?
Burnt Hill brook at its confluence with the Miramichi |
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
