Bradford Island Nocturne When Bradford Island's maples crowned a bluff, lording over river, lovers cycled late at night, carefully across the mires where springs had wallowed short of open water. They stood hard on the pedals, shimmied up the rise. They kissed necks and fumbled in their shirts and watched the lights of Canada on the water. Can such a place remember passion? The distant lights of have crawled to higher ground and shimmer now on a moat of stumps that freighter-wake has yet to wash away. But these maples are in glory. Wind has turned their leaves silver side down. All their limbs rub together, shake hard in every gust, then subside to quiver in the calm. The scepter of the mast swings serenely, now pointing at the Dipper, now stroking down the Dragon's back. All along the shore the river laps, then begins to pull itself away. © Dale R. Hobson. All rights reserved.