Given the curve of the horizon, here is surprisingly appropriate poem, written more than 20 years ago, which captures our hike up the highest peak in southern Quebec.
The World is Round
When I close my eyes
the grass is parched hair
and the sky is old slate,
but I am not lonely.
This is a nervous habit –
the way I think, the way I dance
without sound, like a cat
floating through empty hallways
searching for mice.
When I wonder, I hear
a sunbeam in the ocean
where I am nothing but a tear drop
falling into morning shadows.
And when I sing,
it is the departure of sparrows
fleeing the madness of earth.
The moon is happy
and yesterday means nothing.
Amy Nawrocki 