the Canoe

THE CANOE1

A final tug on the paddle sends the canoe on its own course. She gently raises the paddle from the water and places it with almost reverence across the gunnells not breaking the morning’s silence. Small drops fall from the paddle blade to form quiet circles on the placid water. Circles growing only to fade. The faintist of a giggle trickle behind. The thin fog is rising above the mirrored lake. The puffy white clouds now painted on the water. Little sparks of sunlight glimmer from her long black hair. The moist fog has shined her brown face. Her dark eyes slitted in calm. This is her escape as it has been for her people since the beginning. Slowly she lowers her slim finger to the passing water. Its cool and warm. Cool to the touch, warm to the heart. Beneath her friends swim. Friends that will give themselves to hook, net or spear that she and hers will survive. The end of summer’s sun touches through the thinning fog. Soon the fog will disappear and she will warm. 2

The warm sun will soon give way to the haste of winter and her friends will be sealed beneath blue-white ice. They will survive. They always have. She peers into the water. A friend stares back with fixed eyes. This is as it was, this is as it should be. She closes her eyes and dreams the best of dreams.3

The slight thud of the canoe touching the shore her eyes open slightly. She will wait a little longer, it feels good.4