Always the question: how to make poetry of this?
Here’s my quick effort at a found poem from Iberville’s journal.
All morning there was no fog and no wind,
but the river swells with uprooted trees.
My brother, with the two canoes,
keeps to one side of the banks.
The trees, whose leaves are fat as hands,
rise higher with the ground as we go.
I have not yet noticed any walnut tree
or fruit tree, but shore side some patches
of blackberries are almost ripe enough to eat.
Yesterday we noticed an Indian had passed along.
A good many hanging vines have already bloomed.
I fired two canister shots from the swivel guns.