The white dog froze, one paw raised.

The green boat turned slowly,

The forest echoed to splash of his oars,

Our smoke cast a mist over the water.

He rose from the lake with a grin;

a belly roll above battle fatigues,

hung out by the fire.

I had no beer, no Finnish. 

‘Fish not good; one so big’,

 he spread his arms.

Berry, he counted fingers;

one, two, three week, maybe.

There was a box tied round the dogs neck

Global positioning system.

She find moosa, I find her with phone. See!

I shoot moosa. Bang!

Next month, a hundred migrant workers from Thailand will arrive to pick the berries.

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