Urban morphology

I paddle my canoe so often in the city that the city has ceased to be the city.

Asphalt becomes the portage trails of long dead voyageurs.

The "can people" pass by, indigenous, sometimes approving and helpful,
sometimes doubting my intentions.

I paddle into my secret place, a twisting narrow route through the cattails, something the beaver has created that I can use in high water. When I can float no further and must decide whether I want to drag the canoe through the marsh or back out, I stand up so that my eyes are even with the tops of the cattails. For so long, the bleached, brittle cattails of last season have stood in defiance of time. Now, new growth has reached full height. You'd think that the old ones would now be supported and that they would continue to stand, but they don't. It seems as if they have melted away.

I know where they go, but I always wonder, where did they go?

I find the water in the east channel of the burial island so still that I do not want to disturb it. I stop and wait until someone else comes along and breaks the spell.

Note - the can people = motorists