In the hush of snow, black spruce branches sweep
through silence. Gray bellied whiskey jacks
build their nests close to the trunks.
It’s their song that will surprise you—
both the whistle and warble—
any given day in winter.
Like this day, sky overcast, wind calm.
I ride to the top of the ski lift, the landscape
above tree line, a study in gray and white.
Coastal mountains peak and dip like meringue.
In every direction space opens.
How easy it is to get lost. To wander
into the wilderness and never come back.
I carve tight turns, then use all my strength
through the icy patches. My husband’s voice —
keep your weight forward, trust the edges of your skis—
as if he were trailing behind me.
Why is it easier to be alone here
on the slopes of an unfamiliar mountain?
It’s a long run down to the boreal forest
where the whiskey jacks chatter, then scream
as a red squirrel approaches. They mob
the creature then disappear into the trees again
and quiet. I listen,
the cold slipping its icy fingers
through to my skin,
the sun a pale penny, a shadow of itself.
Credit: Red Wheelbarrow, Volume 20: Fall 2019