There is a stream up north that calls
in soft insisting echoes
to wander down its alder halls
and linger in its meadows.
Very few have seen its source,
the ice-blue lake deep in the highlands.
None I know has run its course
or walked along its granite islands.
I often stand upon its shore
where it meets the Miramichi,
and vow some day I will explore
its rock-strewn realm of mystery.
I know its path is frought with falls,
its rapids run in boulder chains.
Still it beckons, still it calls,
come north, Nanook, to my domains.
Clearwater Stream, your siren song
has cast its spell upon my will.
I only hope it won't be long
ere my dream I shall fulfill.
Nanook of the Nashwaak
Reach out and touch a rock
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