There lies at its moorings the old canoe.
The useless paddles are idly dropped,
Like a seabird’s wings that the storm has lopped,
And crossed on the railing one o’er one
Like the folded hands when the work is done.
While busily back and forth between
The spider stretches his silvery sheen
And the solemn owl, with his dull “too-hoo”
Settles down on the side of the old canoe.
The stern half-sunk in the slimy wave