The Trees Sound a Distant Thunder

The trees sound a distant thunder

sweeping cross country, the quick reel

of a long winter's hunger in a hurry

to shovel every season before

the year's allotted end. We brace ourselves,

prepare to dig in, fixing to memory

the hour's fast fading recklessness.

As the sun begins to slowly unravel

you hold against the turning wind

unwilling to surrender the inviting blue

waters of the great lake's summer swell;

an amused loon hoots its encouragement,

or derision as I pull the canoe

up an out, away from an ill wave's intent.

The black pup seems content on thrashing

a stick about the rocks, racing the cold

running tide along the strand's edge,

his daily persistence not yet cajoled,

one more concern to be wrestled over;

still in the dark as to the impending change

of landscape, he carries on his thrashing-

crashing through the late afternoon swirl

taking his cue from your rising laughter,

the mad gypsy pirouette you unfurl

into the strengthening wind, almost daring

nature to knock you from your moorings.

When you begin to shout, I'm slow to register

until I follow the pup's point...

the dancing thunder burst from a lake's woods

the sudden reckoning of a send off.

All I can hear is the sharp rejoinder

to our tarrying shut of the gate,

the rough sting of a first hard drop of rain

driving us off from our reverie.

The season's last great deafening hurrah.

Ken e Bujold