canoeing the betsie


White sun dances like diamonds

on swift running water.

Free-falling river

glides past a painted turtle.

Shadows glance around each bend.

Sliding down the liquid passage

cradled in her earthy banks,

we breathe each bush and birch,

beneath the arching lacy boughs.

Flitting cedar waxwings

seize on bugs above.

A hawk hovers; a heron

in a pine top watches.

The wind sweeps sand

through tree-brushed sky

back to her conception.

Rivulets rush

into our watery way

as we are born upon the bay.


            Gail (June ’10) recalls the day she experienced the words above, “What a wonderful experience it was to canoe the Betsie River, which empties into Lake Michigan near Frankfort. This poem reflects my memory of it in 1993.”

* a poem from the Jul 2010 edition of Ninepatch *

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