Alberta
Ravens
Gliding in groups above
wheezing garbage trucks,
like derelict seagulls winging over
a seaward ferry,
the ravens perch on
street lights
at sub-zero temperatures.
They cackle and caw their
midnight melodies
and defy the elements
as northern lights
splendidly ply
the night sky.
Survival
The key is picking the right spot
the firm grip without missing a step
by understanding the lay of the land
avoid twisting an ankle
walking the precambrian rock
covered in soft moss
a century deep,
on a sunny day facing the sun
I close my eyes.
I hear nothing
then shots in the distance.
The Cree are hunting chickens.
I absorb the sun gratefully and slowly
open my eyes to vast vistas of clouds
through spindly Spruce and Birch
a rabbit stares me down,
dashes for cover.
Leaving the path the raucous speaking
of ravens
they circle a dog, part sled part Shepherd
eight to one the dog wearies guarding
the dead carcass at his feet.
The ravens smarter,
more determined will eat tonight.
The crunch of gravel under foot,
later I spoke to a native man
who told me about using birch bark
for kindling, keep
it in your car for the winter road
he told me. It could save your life.
At a Spring Garage Sale after the Thaw
Each February a dark steel oil drum is set on the frozen Athabasca
over mid-stream. There it sleeps through the frozen sub-arctic
night. Bets are made as to the day, the hour, the minute
as to when it will break through the ice at winter’s end.
Driving over the bridge the barrel is visible to drivers and the
odd brave pedestrian as a tiny speck on the barren ice. Up-stream,
by the end of April, we hear news of the river break-up as Southern
snow melts and swells the river eventually heaving seven foot thick
ice slabs to the river’s edge.
Last winter I counted my winnings. My picture in the local paper
holding a handful of twenties to the wind like a Vegas high roller.
I bought my daughter a new bicycle.
Some winters past, at the Spring garage sale, after the divorce,
the bike sold for a few dollars.
Waiting by Doors
Ballet class over
the young girl
waited at the doorway.
Her long graceful neck
bent over a fantasy novel
of dragons breathing fire
on a brave knight.
Outside it was minus 25.
Her Dad arrived
late again.
She looked up with a coy smile
recognizing the dirty Cavalier
with the cracked windshield.
They talked of dance, school and fantasy
as they drove home
for dinner.
Etchings
Walking the long meandering trails
through the northern Spruce Forests
one moonlit winter eve,
I noticed upon looking up
the trees were all
at least ten degrees off centre.
Nothing grows straight
or
true
as life just doesn’t work that way.
The forest knows this lesson
and so I learned it too.
Bent branches only etch
what the winds allow them to.
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