The speaker travels along the end of a road on the St. Lawrence's north shore, and the poem records what she sees with sharp, plain attention. It opens with a small violent moment, a black fly crushed and blood smeared on an arm, which strangely brings a thought of "the unity of all being." From there the journey moves outward: a whale, wine drunk behind bug netting, a road sign announcing that the road stops, then trails, boats, and signs in Innu-aimun and French.
The speaker asks what people do in such a remote place and answers half-bluntly, "Home, I suppose." Her tone then softens into respect. She feels these people deserve beauty, and she finds it in what they have made: a church with blue pews, carved stars, painted figures, and a cross hung with fishnets. The final image, a one-armed man watering hanging geraniums in a wilted town, is quiet and moving. The mood is observant, tender, and a little wistful, finding dignity in small acts of care.