We plant ourselves on the banks of the Morice River
our black rubber boots stand between
the multitude of bear and deer prints
where they lay pressed like a mosaic to the grey, black sand
these being the neighbours in this neighbourhood
She.... the wide river
is swift in this location
no meandering creek spilling into nothingness here
rather a energy of life ripping its way through the landscape
A natural drive like the monthly course of a woman bleeding
creating a lay of the land the map of a place
a very old place
We've travelled here today because 40 years ago this was my frequent place
Putting in at mile 22 meant
Weekly expeditions for numerous years
manoeuvring through life in a canoe
understanding to expect the unexpected
log jams, deadfalls, rapids
watching my teacher lose his life to her strength
learning more in one day than it takes in a life time
As we sip our hot tea and breathe in the pungent scent of rotting pinks and composting vegetation
we can't help but wonder about people who know nothing about place.
Who know nothing about the sacredness of this place.
Who hold no stories in their veins.
How can these who wish to plant pipelines
full of poison
on this very bank
dare
to jeopardize her health and well being?
To accept the idea would be like consenting to a rape.
The rape of an old woman.
Linda Stringfellow 2010
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