The canoe glides like wind
From marsh out into freer water
Remote pink forest melds slowly
Into close wall of green.
The opaque lake borrows
Color where it can,
From tree leaf to raspberry sun,
To the blur of faces.
Ripple, light, motion,
Fog breath, wood duck, fish splash.
Sometimes, the boughs are birdless.
Sometimes a warbler trills . . .
Such a small beak to contain
The only song worth singing.
John Grey is an Australian-born poet, playwright, and musician. His recent books are Pointing the Gun (Dark Regions Press) and What Else is There (Main Street Rag).