Swinging

Biff raises his paddle high as he and Bill run the Irving dam on the Nashwaak

I dream each time I swing my stick
it whispers softly at the tip
singing in a sylvan tongue
sweet as summer’s evensong.

I roll my wrists in rythmic twists,
curl, turn and twirl,
as wavelets roll to sandbar trysts,
swirl, turn, unfurl.

Shifting, spinning endlessly,
in glowing gossamer light
as the sun slips to the sea
and draws its quilts of night.

 Nanook of the Nashwaak 
 Reach out and touch a rock 

• Alder Green

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