I paddled the canoe
along the river
that unraveled like a yarn
through the forest.
I held the arms of wind-fallen
trees and I pulled the boat
through the shallows.
I walked on the bottom
of the river, in its light.
I went over the path
of the French explorer
who named
the river after Louis IX,
over the trail of the Wanigans
the floating bunk houses
and cook shacks
when there were log drives.
I paddled past immigrants,
my Finnish grandparents in Zim,
past beaver traps and hoop nets
past wood ducks and mallards,
over the catfish,
walleyes, northern pike
and small mouth bass.
I paddled past moose
and bears and timber wolves,
past white tail deer and ruffed grouse.
Under the pines.
I was going nowhere in particular
was going to stop
was staying afloat, getting here.
* Wanigan was an Algonquin word meaning cook shack