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.