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I’m two miles high at the very source of this eastering river, just below the snowline, and I head downstream. The valley floor is miles below. This tricklet slithers over slimy stones, pauses in ponds, is dangerously cold. There are little lakes in the moraine I have to skirt. From the skree, the waking marmots bark their mates; from the silhouetted pine, a bald eagle’s seasoned scream is heard, even smelled. This long slope gathers tributes from spring after spring, waterfall after waterfall and the great glacier’s toe drools its perpetual blue. My wet boots slither on stone-slime and I know the declensions of erosion: feet below me, the rocks rest on a gravelly aggregate and that rests on sand. Beneath the sand lies a deep clay bank that fills this valley between the peaks and continues all the way to Medicine Hat. It’s like that. I cannot traverse any terrain without knowing its geometry. Its geology. Its biophysics. I’m a freak of nature. Ask me where Vega is on a summer day and I’ll point up into the blue sky to a spot just above the northern horizon. I've discovered I'm a freak of human nature, too. After performing a poem in Calgary, I was asked by a bystander, “How did your poem go?” “I was great!” I said, and the erstwhile beatnik chortled a guffaw. “Listen to him!” he warbled. |
