Search for Peace (day 100)

I gaze upon this open lake
Gleaming as if shear glass
A log drifting nearer
From some distant bank
Moving, yet not at all that fast
Jumping, randomly, in unannounced grace
The fish seem to be feeding
While my eyes keep focusing
On the mountains that face me
For their touched by the setting sun
A mother, and two kids
Test the cold water
Asking many questions in the patter
I sit here cross legged
On two washed up logs
Behind me a squirrel does a dance
Three feet away, we look at each other
And share this moment in time
However I put it
He knows that I’m here
And the kids keep wandering nearer
The squirrel has got scared
The sun falls further
And I now hear distant trucks traveling
The beach is covered
With various sized rocks
Some one might call boulders
Others they are ground
Into a size
Fairly similar to the size of sand
Driftwood is here
Remains of human is here
And oddly enough, in this lake far away
From any sea, ocean, or salt
I find flying low
Along the banks
Dozens of white and gray seagulls
Gathered
In close knit quarters
Around the base of an emptying river
Perhaps they hold claim
To the butchered remains
Of the feast of some giant grizzly
Only one thing remains
And that is his name
For I have yet to witness
This beast of an animal
I’ve seen overturned rocks
Ideal fishing spots
Still, one shy ol’ bear
Now on to my side
The side left unburnt
Sit three long and slender rocks
They sit on the log
The same log that I’ve chosen
All laid out in a row
I can’t help but wonder
Which marvelous creature
Has decided to leave them hither
For me, I am beaten
A child of teen years perhaps?
Whoever it be, they’re safe with me
As I sit here and spy a lone albatross
The mountains over yonder
I’ve noticed as of now
Have in them a slight tinge of red
I think to myself
That it must be that beetle
That swept through this province
And further to the East (Oh Alberta)
Was it spruce?
Was it Pine?
Was it all those combined?
I wonder what shall come of these cliffs
My squirrel I do miss
I can see jumping fish
Smell burning wood
A golden array
A loon too has joined me
In my search here for peace

[alternate ending: This is the end to a marvelous day!]

Pilgrim (day 80)

Roaming the badlands for a wondrous find
Of golden parades, or simple disdain
Like a bad weather tragedy
Or a day that’s lasted too long
It’s a drought, holding back the tears
It’s a fight that’s punctured my ears

Cooly raising a rusty can into the air
Filled with spit of ten thousand years
Cornered like a rat scared by a straw broom
Fighting like a skunk, dirty’s the only way
But zen fills the room like an omnipresent colour
Inducing the pilgrims into a fury they’ve only remembered

Remembering a love for the open road
A love for the old willow tree
When wagons had wheels made of wood
The gun spoke the law, the buffalo roamed free
And the peace was the mind
As the tumbleweed spun webs
Roaming the badlands for a wondrous find