Smoke
rising from the ashtrays and mouths
collecting beneath the umbrellas on the terrace
Smoke
from the sizzling fajita skillets
streaming like vapor trails behind the diligent waitresses
Smoke
billowing up from the house burning on Duke street
trapped and skulking like a cloud of cornered vandals against the north face of Sugarloaf mountain
Smoke
from the mill’s power boiler stack
drifting and tumbling as it mixes with the haze
of the salmon smoking fires on the reserve across the Restigouche
Smoke of pleasure
Smoke of tragedy
Smoke of necessity
Smoke of tradition
It mingles
with the wind
off the bay of Chaleurs
on an evening in July
flavoring the fundamental fluid and rhythm that sustains us.
