On the mountains tomorrow a veil will descend
            to the vale
A blizzard on its slow route home long
            the Aishihik River
A jakes up in the rocks and shrubs above
            a wooden bridge

The caribou do not cross but walk
            the yellow line
Odd spots of warmth and moisture, earth beneath
            a skein
Lost photos from a hilltop,
            Kluane’s distant late-morning dawn

Moved to and built in the 70s– “a good life” cozy
            in exposure
Snow machines bound for the absurd snowy
            sand dunes
Where the in-and-outside daren’t mingle, more
            memory than moment

Crossties neatly stacked to return to everything
            and nothing
In the concrete foundations are misspoken blue
            fiddle numbers
A certain moonlight wheels across my face and I’ve
            no name for it