Fulford Lake, Alberta
I came across an old fallen log with lichens,
in the woods above the lake,
and it was like seeing a map of the world
and in a way it was, the continents
scattered here and there
across its dark grey weathered bark.
The log lay there in its majesty,
ancient and quiet, yet all through it
was a teeming kind of life.
It was a beautiful sunny day, warm enough
to be sweating under the backpack, cool enough
that the wet shirt there felt like ice when I
took off the pack and lay down against the log
ready to hear, off in the meadows,
the ululation of summer.
Nearby I saw my favorite,
a delicate wetland aster,
bent over and heavy with seed, swaying.
I collected it every year;
it’s a lovely plant full of lavender stars,
and all around the air was filled with midges,
swarming out of the hot grasses, flitting about
on their way to inconsequential little deaths
all across the surface of the cool, still lake.
As sleep embraced me
I could hear the chittering of the birds
who’d stopped for a rest on their way south
while off in the far north new clouds gathered,
dark and low, getting ready to bring the first snow
that would be here by month’s end.
