Soft Algonquin hymns
once offered their embrace
to waters, sky and beasts.
Now, bright campsite flags
synthetic and orange,
are planted to the ground.
A loon swims past - click, flash, a photograph.
The loon doesn’t care.
As for the fishing – it hasn’t gone well;
Perhaps the fish are getting smarter, or fewer.
We count the animals that have appeared:
three Beavers , a Great Horned Owl, two Bull Moose.
We forget to count ourselves.
We slurp some pop and crunch down some chips.
The creatures listen to us chew and talk.
We discuss how different they are
from our wretched, obese, city squirrels.
The winds and lake waves seem to shudder.
Copyright 2006 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.