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The Coot Canoe

Edward S. Sorenson

While the white mist curtained the sleeping stream, the
      blush on the eastern sky,
Glode round the bends in the coot canoe a fair little girl
      and I;
For the redbills perched in the willow trees when darkness
      was on the corn,
And ‘long the river till harvest home they raided the
      crops at morn.

In the bows I sat with a waiting gun, when voices and
      wings were still,
And watched the scrub for a shaking leaf, the glint of a
      flaming bill;
The flash of white ‘neath a flickering tail ‘gainst the
      plumage of dusky blue;
And, her brown hair bared to the morning breeze, she
      paddled the coot canoe.

The mullet schools by the selvedge weeds broke up with a
      plunge and fled,
And the turtles dropped from the cobra logs as ‘long by
      the banks we sped,
With a shot anon, and a puff of smoke that hung in the
      misty air,
And a pause awhile ‘neath the drooping limbs retrieving
      a fallen pair.

The dilbong tinkled a symphony from the top of a
      tamarind,
And the wonga hailed in a liquid note, far sped on the
      scented wind,
And sharply over the river reach the cry of the whipbird
      rang,
From dim-lit depths of a scrubby haunt, the home of the
      tallewang.

To the hum of bees where the bluebells grew, and the
      gossamers built their swings;
By rush and reed where the dragon flies e’er hovered on
      shimmering wings;
We glided downward on duty bent, and a length between
      the crew,
But side by side on the homeward way we paddled the
      coot canoe.

‘Twas narrow amidships where we sat, and, pressed for
      the want of room,
Our pace was slow ‘neath the cherry trees, along by
      the fragrant broom;
Nor heeded we when the regent crossed with a flashing
      of gold and jet,
Or the glittering sheen of the rifle-bird gleamed under an
      arboret.

The wind sprite lifted her flowing hair, and twined it
      around my neck—
Did the redbills know in that nerve-thrilled hour ‘twas
      Cupid’s look-out on deck?
Ah, cherries that painted the craft blood-red, crushed
      under a dainty shoe,
Were not as sweet as the lips of her who paddled the coot
      canoe.

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