Canoe Rocking, neath the Stars.

It is thirty minutes
After Camp’s Supper.
Down to waterfront.
Launching canoe alone.
All day noisy kids.
But not now.
Boating luxurious minutes
Before Campfire.
Slight waving on Bay Waters.
Round the point
To inlet of reveries.
Distant loon out some ways.
Mentions “you’re back
You’re back.”
And dives.
Peeper frogs give sweet
Soundtrack.
One mammoth male
Bullfrog booming out sexual lust.
Nothing else seemingly
But myself stretched prone
Feet on gunwales
Head resting back on
Propped paddle.
Rocking, thrilling
At westerly Red.
And other privileges of
The Bay, owned by me
For now.