This lake, like others, was dug out.  Glacial ice grinding south, scouring
weak Silurian stone, an arctic tsunami leaving only the backbone
of the escarpment.  
Canadian Shield and broken tumble of kames in its retreat.

The glacial rebound cast this lake of shimmering waters, Ontario, 
Give or take a geologic blink.  And now, 
a girl on Holocene shores measures the distance — her to here.  
Fifty-four kilometres as the crow flies, the herring gull,
the cormorant with dried wings.  Sixty-four against the current.
Three point two kilometers an hour, slower than a winter housefly
bumbling against your window.  This might be finished tomorrow.

She inhales, wishes for the bones of a bird, a pigeon's honing for home.
Small arms become wings, beating against the jagged lake.
She'll make the decision over and over and over.
Nothing is a miracle or happens only once.