|Dark water and sunshine in the beaver meadow,|
marsh grasses whistling on the October breeze.
|Black woods, gnarled roots, dead things, smell of rot.|
Brilliant youth, beloved and bright, dappled in sunshine and forever.
"Look at me! he shouts, his voice like music, and how can you not?
|"All the diamonds in this world |
that mean anything to me,
Are conjured up by wind and sunlight
sparkling on the sea."
– Bruce Cockburn
|Apple doll in the sunshine, heart light, happy.|
|Polka dot stepping stones for tiny creatures of the pond, bullfrogs croak their ballet.|
"You're gonna drown, you're gonna drown, you're gonna drown," but the green frogs
connect the dots, slower now, slower still, their skin cold as death.
|The leaves are almost done, hilltop maples are bare, only orange oak and True Grit poplars|
paint Algonquin hills. Look close, though, bend down, and colour bursts from the earth.
David versus the Goliath of weather, wind and time.
|Patriotism sings now, it's the distant hills that call out, |
symphonies of splendour. Foolish pride swells my heart, a beer commercial on my tongue.
I. Am. Canadian.