illusivemeteor

Another slosh of whiskey with “Croc,”

Our Australian escort,

And the time will again come

To dream of the mangy moose

Feeding with a breath on the plants

And an ear on the poacher.

They will be astray

When our slender maple wands

Puncture the still-glass river at dusk.

The furrowed smores

That tickle our bellies

With each shivering snore

Are held together

By the spank of beaver butts

Upon the sluiced Alagash.

The reverent stamina and dexterity

Of the natural law

Keeps our eyes dammed

And our bodies warm.

Breaking camp will unlock another meadow

Flinted by portages,

But for now I will urninate

On the leaves of this branching fern

And donate my design

To the germinating ecosystem.

Trackback URI | Comments RSS