Three Poems

Exit Point

• Attuned to every sense, every wind shift,
• as he sprinted over the cliff edge,
• harnessed, hands looped through rings,

 

• the small nylon wing carving air.
• At highway speeds all that matters
• is two minutes of slalom flight.

 

• A swallow riding the thermals
• on a dopamine cloud. He once
• called speed-flying the ultimate

 

• learning curve between boredom
• and death. Three days before
• his daughter’s due date, his wing hit

 

• a tree on descent. No reserve parachute;
• he fell 500 metres. Goddammit.
• If only he had quit. Friends said

 

• Live Like Kyle. No room for anger
• in their grief amid videos that extol
• living large though his motto was

 

• Go to the mountains. Get small. Repeat.

 

Spa’ákw’us

• White tail feathers glide over gold cottonwoods along the banks
• of the Squamish.
•                                                                       The fetid stink of rotted chum

 

• drew dozens by late fall and us
• volunteers with binocs and scopes “edutaining” tourists.

 

• If they aren’t at Eagle Run, try the Mamquam or the confluence of the
• Cheekeye and Cheakamus. Hungry? Grab a benny at Fergies.

 

• Knowing full well if high water had flushed
• the carcasses off the banks,
• they’d be at the dump.

 

• By Eagle Count time, the numbers were down
• except in the side channels
•                                                      where brown juveniles slalomed
• through spotted alder trunks,
•                                                                 sunk their talons into frozen flesh,
• then stepped aside full
• to let the crows
• hop-peck.

 

• Walk quietly under day roosts, think wind, leaf, anything but
• human, not wanting them to use up
• their energy, fly off.
•                                                         So few make it to adult.
• Place my hand beside tracks                           Spa’ákw’us,
• that measure wrist to fingertip.                     that carry
•                                                                                       our prayers
•                                                                                       skyward.

 

My Squamish Is Not Your Squamish

• I grew up with Woodfibre
• and the log sort, he says,
• not this goat-loving mayor                  Everything comes from the forest,
• wearing gumboots.                                she says, holding two cones
•                                                                     in a wrinkled hand.
•                                   Clean air, water, medicine,
• the food we eat,
• the houses we live in,
• all paid for by lumber.                          Don’t get me wrong,

 

•                  I contributed to her campaign—
•                  did you know she plays
•                  ukulele?                                    Lots of opposition to
•                                                                     the ski resort
• says the reporter                                   but people won’t go
•                                                                     on record.
• Logging trucks
• chugging down Cleveland                            It will always be
• past the bike shops.                                        a timber town, he says.

 

•                                                       Wood cheap enough to burn.
• Sure, I say.                                  Chop your own at Christmas.
• I’ve got nothing
• to lose by speaking out.                           Before Woodfibre shut,
•                                                                          this was a one-income town.
•                  Blue collar white collar             Families with all the toys,
•                  pink collar green collar she says quads, bikes, trucks.
•                  we need to find a way to talk
•                  to one another.
•                                                                     In Paradise Valley, they say
• neighbours on the dirt road
• know each other by                                what colour
• what car they drive                               their driveways are
•                                                                      during election time.

 

---

Photo by Konrad Wojciechowski on Unsplash.