Canoeing

Our strokes are rhythmically
measured, firm and strong,
the measure of our bodies'
recall, the method of moving a 
canoe swiftly and surely along the
surface of a northern lake
not forgotten, nor the care to
avoid deadheads, nor rocks
appearing where none should be
to trap the unwary canoeist. The
lake has welcomed our presence,
warmer by far than the ambient
temperature above, sending 
mild moist gusts to mollify us, 
aware of the cold, the wind and 
the rain within a fierce onslaught
determined to blow us off 
our course, arrogant in their
combined presumption that
they can, as our paddles defy
them, sluicing the lake, pulling
up bright pearls of lakewater,
our paddles defying them. A
loon surfaces to goad or compliment
us on our journey, a laughing lunatic.