Lodge of the Beaver

 

One day, watched just the gnarling

A trunk ten inches crosst.

Could hear persistent grinding

I behind bushes lost.

The meeting was first by happenstance

A hike by the Lake the cause.*

I heard the tail whack.

He, swimming, looked back.

And now had been many a pause.

The industry overwhelming.

The weather, not any concern.

And I went to school

With chisel and rule

The craft of this woodsman to learn.

The kits would come after the shaping

The mud shell and access submerged.

His wife knew the time

For birthing sublime.

And for quicker progress she urged.

(The locale was Fairy Lake at the north end of Beausoleil Island, Georgian Bay ON, London Y Camp CQE)