ST. LAWRENCE, NORTH SHORE
Smashed with a fingertip. My blood smeared on my arm. The unity of all being. Black flies so easy to kill. A whale cruises the shore, tide coming in. We pour wine, unzip the netting to drink. There is no end to the road, just a sign it stops, and trucks, bulldozer, a man who laughs when we get out to see.
The end of the road. After that, ATVs: sandy trails with their bridges and stop signs in Innu-aimun and French. Inuksuit, acting like people, stand by marking the way. Sand bones, granite bones. After that the boats.
What do the people do here? Fish, kill flies, stare at the endless power lines, the listless trees. Home, I suppose. What we put up with because it’s ours.
These people deserve all the beauty they can find: roses, birdsong, orange sunset clouds. And what they make: blue wooden pews, penknife-carved stars in the vault of their church. Blue-robed Mary, her open heart, and Jesus, crowned above. White cross with fishnets and the names of their boats. Wreaths of fabric flowers, iron rooster on the tower, bells.
We stop in a wilted town to eat our bread and cheese. A one-armed man waters baskets of geraniums hanging from lampposts in the park.