After a full day of paddling
The water got its point across.
I had nothing to show for it,
No pictures or stories
To show or tell anyway.

It was the illusion of reaching
Somewhere that doped my fatigue
As if I had been sleeping the whole way.

I felt good about the paint
Scraped off the wooden water-belly,
Seeing it as my gratuity
For swearing at the gunwales
Going under briefly.

In the tranquility of the sunset
Portage, when the sun said “ah” to me,
I saw nothing thanks
To the canoe on my head.