Pines Grasp the Clouds

"In splintery cookhouse light
grab my tin pisspot hat
Ride off to the show in a crummy-truck
And start the Cat..." – Snyder, from Myths and Texts











Same old brown water bay
at the receiving end of spillway.
Been on TV recently,
log rollers spin away in the shallows
sponsors' flags, fine crowd
for a saturday, cameras aroll,
a train rolling past shrieking brakes.
Just across the impoundment
an airport and the metal birds
all day circling waiting their moment.
It's not what I'm doing
but the want of it – jump in!
the lake, shuck the two-hull pontoon,
get rid of the fast little machines
and floating blow ups.
Swim up stream alongside the fish,
bot with the corking timber afloat.
Wade up into deep sand shorelines
find the wood, start the fire,
listen to the wildwoods
and find great blue heron friends.
The old Voyageurs
used to tip their boats upside down
at night, light up a smudge,
listen to the bugs buzz
around the birchbark, smoke 'em
out and peel off the skin
of carp – the tomorrows
of the tomorrows down in raw river.
Trade shacks ten skins
hanging along the drying rope.
"Good to see ya Slim."
Then off again into the woods.