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Moonrise in Canoe Country
by Michael Escoubas

My dad says, Son, there's no place
on earth like this; everyone
needs his own special space.

We portage Minnesota's
backcountry to find the one place
where the moon speaks, Don't miss

this light I'm giving, don't miss
the ducks swimming in the silent
water. For two weeks in August

it is me, my dad, our battered
canoe, our tattered tent and fire
made the old fashioned way:

no matches, just skill with dried
sticks and breath nursing smoke
and flame. Daddy puffs his pipe,
I stoke the fire, the air is still,
our canoe rests on the shore.
Arms of blue smoke encircle me.

 

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