The Canoeist

The Canoeist


Alone….
On the lake
The soft stroke of my paddle…
Echo’s off the shore.

I can feel the quietness;
I can hear the sound of silence
A peaceful sound.

It is so calm, so still,
That I hear the echo of my blood,
Rushing in my ears, a deafening sound.

The early evening mist,
Feels cool on my face;
But has a freshness to it
Like no other time of day.

And as I guide my canoe slowly
Through the calm, quiet waters,
I drink in the beauty that lays before me…

A ghostly image of evergreens
Reflects off a natural mirror
I am alone, but not alone.

As if on cue from a distant part of the lake;
Comes the cry of the northern loon.

There is nothing like it,
There is nothing to compare..

Expect the lonely answer,
Of another loons prayer.