These pines are taller
than I remember.
On my back at campsite
I look up dazed, distant.
August sun warms sky
and water lightly tapping
rocks of this tiny island
somewhere in Canada.
Night vanishes – a wolf’s
cry fades like a gun shot
into silent abyss. At
water’s edge my canoe
rests in gentle new
daylight – no more rocking
on bow and stern, upside
down in dark breezes.
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