Long before canoes of Kevlar made.

Long before casino Siren songs.

Long before summer cabins and motorboats.

Long before digging mountains of iron ore.

Long before the axe and saw of logging.

Long before strangers with their paper deeds.

Long before Ojibway unveiled the source

To Schoolcraft and Boutwell, the Headwaters,

The birth-place of the Great River,

Was a people who worshiped this birth of waters

By a still, gentle pool sparkling with sunlight

And edged with rare orchids and pink moccasin flowers

Beneath the outstretched limbs of ancient white pines.

A sojourner

Ambling aimlessly through this forest

On a foggy autumn morning,

Will pass hillsides of aster in rich blue,

Under golds and reds of birch and maple.

Or see fresh signs of wolf and bear,

Watch a pine marten flow over rocks,

Hear the melodious Great Horned Owl,

Or sense the white-furred snowshoe

Timorously awaiting the camouflage of winter.

The imagination may sense a shape

Moving purposefully through the mist,

At the edge of the birth-pool of the Great River.

The wandering mind might also hear

Distant echoes of forgotten chants.

The Caretaker still watches

Over this place.