Evening on the St. Lawrence 40s jazz ripples out from pine-hidden patios. Mist breeds over Croil Island shallows. The boat turns slowly on its anchorline. We insulate ourselves, bourbon against the whiteout, line our bellies with smuggled Canadian beef and beer. The old river road still runs through rockcuts under the lake, linking farm foundations, root cellars full of fish and muck. Lampreys taste the current with toothy sucker-mouths, threading dog ribs mingled in washed-out roots of apple stumps. The past outlasts us. The land changes. We picnic on forgotten graves, sing drunkenly. Fog engulfs. We nod wet dreams come nightfall in the lightly bobbing boat. Poem © Dale Hobson. Engraving © Greg Lago. All rights reserved.