moonlight canoe

I’m back from the loon-lands of the north, where the stars reflect on night-clear lakes and the granite meets the water in a sweep so beautiful it could break your heart. This is the land I dream of when I’m away: red pine against the setting sun, deep cold lakes, caribou moss. At night when the moon rose and we tucked ourselves into tents, campfire smoke in our hair and shoulders tired from miles of paddling and portages, and listened to the wolves teaching their cubs how to howl at the waning moon, pressed to gibbous against the milky sky.