The Lay of the Land

Sept 12 2018

Wind whips through the narrows

of this small inland lake

making headway impossible.

Its forested shores

of primordial rock

that were carved by glaciers eons ago

are steering the wind

like a great brass instrument,

funnelling air

through intricate passes

that curve, and branch, and narrow,

turning movement to sound

and invisible air

to implacable force.

You can read the lay of the land

in this onshore breeze

that blows reliably

off Lake Superior

in the afternoon heat.

Its cold black water

and the sun-warmed land

are a convection machine,

so even here, miles north

it pours through the gap

and holds me at bay.

The canoeist's mantra

“may the wind

be always at your back”

has failed me once again;

turning constantly into its teeth, it seems,

as if it knew

and was toying with me,

amused at my frustration.

A large bird is hovering

directly above me,

wings beating into the breeze

so exactly

all the forces cancel out.

It steers with the lightest of touch,

wind rippling

its sleekly feathered form.

Is it high enough to see

the great lake itself?

To discern the storms of fall

the darkness of winter

the southern refuge

it will soon seek out?

The lay of the land

like a topographical map

to its keen avian eye.

And the terrible forces of nature

I can feel converge

on this small inland lake

on this insignificant spot;

a whistling wind, pinched by the narrows,

white-tipped waves

churning north.

And an open canoe

barely holding its own.