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 were 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 sheperd
eight to one the dog wearies guarding
the dead carcus 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.
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