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.