Skin Canoes

Swallows carve lake wind, trailers lined up, fish tins. The fires of a thousand small camps spilled on a hillside. I pull leeks, morels from the soil, fry chubs from the lake in moonlight. I hear someone, hear the splash, groan of a waterpump, wipe my mouth. Fish grease spits at darkness. Once I nudged a canoe through that water, letting its paddle lift, drip. I was sucked down smaller than the sound of the dropping, looked out from where I had vanished.