The Picnic in the Laurentians

Nobody knew where he came from.
With long wings the colour of earth
And thin unwieldy body,
He crashed Louis' birthday party
On the edge of a lake
In the heart of the Laurentians:
A giant night butterfly,
In solitude seeking our company.


The whole afternoon,
The forest rang with our laughter
(Urbanites unleashed en plein air),
The water absorbed the shrieks
Of the kids paddling their
Green plastic boat
(Sunburned savages eager to play),
The bushes and leaves breathed in
The smoke of our fire with chunks of
Meat and marshmallows inside
(Traditional
North-American picnic fare).


Now we were gazing at the intruder
Wondering how he lost his way,
And welcomed him to what we thought
Was our turf. It was all ours,
And he was our guest, silently
Partaking of our celebration,
Gratefully taking the crumbs
From our feast.


He was from there
But it was all ours,
And he never put in a word
Of complaint. Not even when
Soon he was forgotten,
Sadly misplaced among the plates,
With crumpled tissues and half-eaten
Cake.