We ride the swift mudslides of skanky verbage
sluicing, slicing down the vertical muck
not all neurons are created equal, bunky

that sound you hear in the background

that sound you hear in the background

the one that almost resolves into rhythm

is the sound of water on rock

the sound of the lake meeting the shore

endless one foot waves travel twenty miles

the length (or is it the breadth?) of lake wabakimi

each surprised by the sudden arrival at its final destination

startled by its last splash against this patient rock

this partially submerged hunk of granite

boreal moss-mottled herald of weather spent

imperturbable solid precambrian huge

rock stops the lake swells and

splashes quiet at our feet over and over and under

 

the weather just changed again

the fourth season since dawn

a full year of climatology

and we’re still clutching morning coffee

 

 6 am – spring

overcast chilly windy stiff

brisk and hopeful

like an april birthday

the moss a soft pillow

tents, tarps and raincoats dripping dew

as we step out and into the day

 

7 am – summer

 clouds break

mysterious yellow sun pours down

source of life, blasts through hot

rocks bake, steam rises

solid summer strong for forty fine minutes

the dew evaporates like dew does

it shouldn’t be such a surprise

it is, after all,

the middle of august

 

8 am – autumn

at the horizon line far off on the lake

grim churning cloudbank menaces

rain smudges distant tree lines

a weird turbulent white line

snakes closer on the tinfoil lake

a leaf skitters dancing across the rock

it’s football weather

i imagine a long pass

lazily sailing from the other sky the clear sky

and falling into my arms as i

cross the goal line

 

9 am - winter

we snug the rainhoods, zip the rainsuits, tug on the tarp

sudden breath steams in sudden cold air

48 degrees – is that the temperature

or the angle of the rain at impact?

hand searching pockets for warmth and gloves

clawing for all 90 degrees hugging Atlanta far away

but the wind howls fury in response

 

and now that’s the one sound

the only sound you can hear

all else is muted wind-bound and subsumed

by that relentless broad whistling penetrating howl

whirling streaming screaming gray wabakimi airstream cold

like a wind tunnel

except

without the tunnel

just a vast open howling landscape

pushing its way into your skin

by the north canadian frozen emboldened boy poets