From here, from up above,
Great Slave unveils itself
slowly. With patience.
Late May, and the ice
is only just beginning to
break up in places. Stubborn.
Blue that is so deep and true,
and sun that spears down
onto the water. Sky-bright.
A far northern lake that conjures the
sensual swirl of paper marbling:
steel stylus drawn slowly through ink;
half-thoughts and fancies, scattered;
paisleys that curl conjugal into one another;
white feathers dipped, rippling in green or indigo.
This is longing that can’t be denied, as ice reaches
for land, already knowing it won’t return.
This desire—a shiver,
a breath, hitched up.