Our taxi driver

races at one hundred twenty-five. 

Deer are prancing by.

The beats on Herve’s

headset draw Deer Woman to us.

She will leave only

when the drumming stops.

Is she a warning

or a personal transformation?

No time to find out.

“I have a message

to carry to Beaver. Dancing

didn’t hold these men

long enough to be

of any use. Flood!”

We’re biking all 200 k

in one day? Don’t doubt anything.

The beaver plants his stick.

He no longer brags

about his fluffy tail, flattened

by a huge tree, cut

out of frustration.

“It’s better this way.”

“Will the coming flood

wipe away my dam and my home?

Butterfly, soar high.

Return with a sign.”

Dawn, Mt Laurier.

We are just passing through

but the snake we swerve around

lives here.

Home is where they sleep, and hunt,

and mate.

A papillon lights.

Stuffed into a sack,

all the colors of the world, and the songs

of the winged-ones formed

butterflies. Released,

they sang and angered the winged-ones.

“Our song was what set

us apart from all creation.”

Creator took back songs,

and so it is that the butterfly

silently helps me

accept change with grace.

“In two days the flood

gathers force. Lie low. It comes soon.

Rain will rip my wings.”

Nominingue. Stop!

I need to stand up and eat.

Mosquitoes bite hard.

They are still angry

that Father Mosquito was killed.

They want their revenge.

“Eat up, boys. Riders

don’t stay long. Bat is gone to bed.

We are safe. No Deet.”

This must be Labelle.

Its bridge is rickety. I peer

at 5 trout lined up.

Quick to change their minds,

these open-minded trout look up,

somehow choosing me.

“We are the keepers

of this pool. Big Legs penned us up.

Who of us will be

next for his dinner?

The bridge’s boards creak as those two

pass over our heads.”

Tourists. Mt Tremblant.

Café in former dépôt where ducks

parade for crumbs.

Gullible? Tricked?

Yes, Coyote often lured them

to their deaths. Dumb! But

Merganser Duck, an Earth-diver,

dove to ocean floor

to bring up earth for Creator

to make the firm land

we are biking on.

“I have an issue

with Loon. He thinks he was original,

the Earth-Diver who

brought up mud on Turtle’s big back.

It was me! And don’t

grab glory, Muskrat. You, too, homed

in on primeval

creativity and daring.

It was me, me, me!”

Eight k, all uphill.

In loose gravel at Saint-Jovite,

a snapper crawls out.

A turtle carried

the weight of the earth on his back.

Emotional strength

as we grind uphill.

“No one disputes me,

or my ancestor, who bore mud

on my back, and She

who fell from the sky.”

Spiraling falcons,

we fold and plunge down Saint-Faustin-

Lac-Carré at noon.

Our courage returns

as did that of the Falcon, healed

of the feeble wing

broken by Old Drake.

“Ok, you dumb ducks,

d-u-m dumb, got the better

of me as I struck

your flock. But where is Old Drake

now? Here, it’s just me.”

A dragonfly lights

On Hervé’s bike at Saint-Agathe-

des-Monts. portending,

personal transformation of

Dragonfly Woman.

“Some think me evil.

My translucent wings bring joy to all.

I eat mosquitoes.

Isn’t that enough for status?”

A river otter

slips into Lac des Sables. Slick,

not stiff, as we are.

It pops its head up

and swims over to encourage

us to be playful.

This clown is never

to be underestimated.

He hunts in his watery home.

“As Rabbit knows well,

we teamed up to save Penobscots

from sure starvation.

That done, all bets off.”

At Val David snow

last April made our scouting crazy

like a loon at night.

Loud and eerie cries

are reporting our biking tour

to Glooscap. Spying,

loon brings us nothing,

no divine message.

“I beg to differ.

No merganser or other duck

made the dive to the ocean floor.

Proof? I’m heavier,

and drop faster, farther, longer

than any so-called

‘Duck-Diver’ once did.”

Geese coast downstream

at Rivière du Nord, warning

of the storm en route.

Glooscap summoned Goose

to lead the little birds southward.

Many had been killed

by storms. We won’t be.

“My honking

governs the seasons. You may think

I’m unrefined

next to Canada Warblers,

but my call resounds

in long, low frequencies that leap

over lakes and trees.

We leave! We arrive!”

Thunder cracks, the grouse

in underbrush at Saint-Adèle

fly up in downpours.

When he beats upon

a hollow log, he makes a noise

like an man

at work upon a canoe.

Grouse built the canoes

for all the little birds, but not

for himself. His own

round canoe went nowhere. Ashamed,

he flew inland, where

he warns us of storms.

“Far from my mountains,

I’m not supposed to be near lakes.

Big Goose, I too sound

off with low frequencies. Courting

is why my wings drum.

Who wants to live without a mate?

Not I. And you, Goose?”

On Saint-Jérôme‘s arch

ravens perch at Kilomètre

Zéro. Rain pours down.

The tricksters hope for

handouts, greedy and impatient.

We have come too far

to indulge these birds.

“Just because I feed

on carrion and crumbs, and lunch

thrown down by bikers,

does not mean I have no powers

to transform. My caws

are for other ravens, not you.

Humans come and go.

My clans and totems

are continental.”

Scalding coffee,

poutine, steaming turkey slices.

Qu’est-ce que tu penses de ton père, maintenant, fiston ?

“My sacrificial

meat ought to be respected.

Don’t these riders know this Turkey

gives them abundance

and virility?”