There is a circle island that is imperfect
and there is an us that is perfect
somewhere in the dimples of the lake.
but there is also an us that is imperfect, heads leaning into the wind,
hands stuffed in jacket pockets,
roaming the mottled shore.
the smiling gaze of our four eyes is
multiplied to cover the whole round river
by the total silver sun reflection of Lac Observation
as it is viewed from space.
I imagine the two uses hiding from each other in the hills,
masked by the tundra loam but leaving clues of our adjacent life
(knotted grass, a cairn, leaf cuts)
laughing in our wakes.
the smiling gaze of our four eyes is
multiplied to cover the whole round river
by the total silver sun reflection of Lac Observation
as it is viewed from space.