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.