CRYSTAL FALLS

Morning mist over the lake

the frosty breath of the northwoods

rolling like a sigh over the water

chilled and quiescent, eagles overhead

gliding in curlique patterns

over the treetops, the birches



as tall and trim as totems, their ashen trunks

staunchly defying Canadian winds.

Only the drone of motorboats

squander the stillness, fishermen,

poles in hand, heave lines into the snapping air,



eyes fixed on the water, their minds

clear as the sky, wait patiently for the kiss

of northern pike upon their lures.

To the west, faintly, like a

growling stomach, storm clouds

gather and groan, delineating one more chapter

in the saga of Crystal Falls.