If you start riding down that dirt road

You’ll pass, by turns,

Long aisles of tamarack and pine

(Just think of Glooscap)

And then a stretch of poplar, birch, and maple

(Think, now, of Robin Hood).

The trees are shoed with bunches of weeds

Whose seeds hitchhiked from Europe,

Snagged on woolen skirts and socks,

And squished into narrow cracks of sabots.

A loaded logging truck might jostle by.

After ten minutes, take a right.

You’re on a grass-spined logging road.

In August and September

Mushrooms grow along the southern edge;

Most are inedible. Keep on riding,

Bored by the dark monotony of spruces.

Then suddenly a lake

Will spring like a glad song

From the throat of the earth

And there you’ll be on the little unrailed bridge

That roofs a beaver’s den.

There sit and watch the comings and  goings of ducks,

Delight in the darting splendour of dragonfly  games.