“I Feel like the Mother of the World” – Smog

I believe in bad gravel roads, hot pancakes on cool
mornings, tucked away lakes with no cottages, cabins
or formal camping, the solstice sun that never
truly sets, the temperament of old dogs, lily
pads, Jim Harrison poems, Bill Callahan songs,
walleye holding near the drop-off, eagles overhead,
black bears in camp, well worn moccasins, mid-morning
beers, a good woman who doesn’t mind the paddling,
the magic of black spruce stands and muskeg flats,
rickety docks handmade and half-submerged, two
fingers of rye in a blue tin cup, greasy hair,
distant loon calls, the water lapping at the canoe,
the din of mosquitoes, the wind in the birch,
how the whole world glows with a hint of wonder at
first light and has since we were children.

I believe in small signs from small gods nudging
our compass ever back towards grace.