The map fails you.
Paddling alone in the silver dappled water,
You’re spooked by a crazy loon laugh.
It’s getting late and you’ve a ways to go before night.
On the horizon you see
an unbroken line of old-growth trees.
Boreal forest, they call it, for Boreas,
the Greek god of the North Wind and Winter.
A single mass of land
where you need to find a channel
But as you draw closer,
the waterline becomes jagged
Closer still, and the trees become distinct.
Pine, spruce, tamarack, birch.
The islands separate and you see the way.