Like teeth
There's a canoe
in the middle of Lake Something
on the border
loaded with three kids, some backpacks, muddy boots and wet jeans.
They're paddling like hell to beat the storm.
The wind is coming up and whitecaps lap over the sides of the light boat,
sitting low in the deep green lake where monster pike wait,
an oily, mean fish that tastes like teeth.
One of the leaders in another boat, who had lately taken up sharing a tent
with the oldest of the group, a loner with a dad at home who beat him,
urges them on.
He seems scared. Maybe. Or scared for the kids. But these three kids aren't scared. They're young.
Every night they hang their food packs in the trees, out of reach of the rumor of bears
but they keep cans of beans to eat inside after night falls and one of them runs
out into the mosquito dark and throws the can as far as he can through the trees, just in case.
The prow of the canoe dips into a wave and the boy in front is soaked.
He laughs.
"Let's dump it."
"Fuck you, I'm not wearing wet clothes tomorrow."
"C'mon, We can swim the rest of the way."
The boys turn toward shore
but now they are paddling into the teeth of the storm and it seems to the middle boy
that they aren't moving at all.
Some of their friends are out of sight.
But this trio in their overloaded canoe
are still in the deepest part of the lake.
Tonight, they will huddle under trees in wet clothes,
slapping at bugs and eating dehydrated beef stew, unless the storm stops
and they can fish.
And they can sit around a fire
eating hunks of walleye and pike
as wolves with giant paws like hands sing in the distance.