Rounding Hat Point

Out of the Sawtooth cliffs
the smoke and clap of cannons.
Men to paddle in unison
to an old chanson, an old song
sung to celebrate arrival
at the Grand Portage Stockade.
What had been the journey?
The thousand miles over as many horizons.
Hat Point under the moon
was a world onto itself,
the end of water, the cold dreams
of smudge fires flaring
from under the Montreal birchbarks.
Great lines of men
and native women stood to salute.
The greenhorn to the brigade
could feel an icy chill
up and down his back.
The old avant, hardened, but soft
to heart, might find a tear
crawling back upwards to ward
away the fear of the end.