Within the walls of Old Quebec, a park
Called Montmorency sits above le fleuve;
To that today Jean trains his steady mark:
A daily track he hikes as in some groove.
The route from Ste. Ursule and down Ste. Anne
Has many spaces worthy of attention,
But none are in Jean’s aim – his scan
Seems on a further reach or veiled dimension.
It’s winter and today the river’s lost
Within the ice and thickly falling snow;
While in the park, its cannons, cruel with frost,
Still aim at stinging foes from long ago.
Jean turns from this, but here he’ll stand again,
And on the river where it narrows reign.
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