When drifts of snow and ice rise high
and winterís winds of white still fly,
is it too soon to start to dream
of boating on a sunlit stream?
Will this be the spring at last
like springs I knew in seasons past,
when streams ran deep and blue and clean
by meadows clad in alder green?
My thoughts are fond of streams I know
where once again Iíd like to go.
Then I hear the siren call
of virgin rivers, great and small.
As the days of March extend
onward to the winterís end,
so I scheme to venture forth
on streams in forests of the North.
Nanook of the Nashwaak
Reach out and touch a rock
Hear Nanook recite this poem.
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