Climate Change Questions.
Did this retreating glacier squandered all its beauty
mimicking
an aquamarine serpent
frozen between the Mendenhall Towers
as a child’s skates sliced up
lake ice reflections
of snow and rock?
Has it calved too many icebergs,
sloughing them into the lake
to melt in surprising warmth?
On these too common days of winter rain
and autumn storms
can the glacier and its consorts
be more than
a metaphor for loss?
“Beauty knows no pain”
she said
plucking hairs beyond border
of her fashionable eyebrow.
Beauty knows no pain
I think
bare hand focusing the camera
on a rare rainforest sunrise
and the totem face turned
from the hammering wind.
Words, even ones cleverly picked and organized
could never describe a maple’s dying leaf.
Red, Portland orange, or even poppy give
only part of the story. Ivory, daffodil, lemon, canary,
gold, and chartreuse could provide more clues.
You might need saffron, mustard, or even amber but don’t forget
android green, apple green, and for irony, bud green.
Add sand, goldenrod, and a dark enough tan
to give painters a recipe for something
a child could tape to a south-facing window
to be animated by light.
Aki loves this kind of snow—loose, cold, and just deep enough for burying her head. We found it covering all the ground in this meadow home of stunted spruce trees. I am willing to wait, hand cold by inaction, as she indulges herself.
In spite of the discomforted hands, I’m thankful today—
for the cold air, blue skies, full sun, no wind
that my new ski boots fit over my ever widening feet
that the little dog takes joy from simple things and I try to do the same
for having enough gas money to fund the drive to this forest trail
having the health to ski down it
I am also frustrated—
that my heavy gloves fail my hands
that a prop plane drones overhead
that we might never see a world at peace.
Skiing on, we enter an old growth forest. I stop where the forest floor is spotlighted by an off stage art director, What story does she illustrate with such backlit beauty? I ski on before my ignorance leads to more frustration. 
Today I sing of sun
sun and frosted snow
frosted snow but not flooding tide.
Empty tide
I sing to children
who drop salted and sweet treats
within my reach.
I sing for sloppy children
not dogs, clumsy or facile
that search for treats
beneath my feathered feet.
Co Cooooo Co Cooooo
little children
Ho Hooooo.
Fog hangs over a riverine forest. You are drawn to the excitement of sunlit meadows. Knowing the fickle nature of ground hugging clouds, push your skis harder than the icy conditions allow. From deep in the gray woods, see on your horizon the sun making something wonderful out of a stream running high against its snow white bank. Ski harder. Sunlight still floods the meadow when you arrive, tired. Feel new muscle twinges; squint at the bright whiteness; escape back to the gray. 
With the tidal door slowly swinging closed, Aki the poodle-mix, my daughter and I round the little point that forms its door stop on the lower Mendenhall River. Six to eight feet of sloping beach still separate ocean water from rocky barrier. We walk quickly down beach on pebbles glued in place by ice. Full sun blankets the glacier and its mountain consorts but we are in shade. So is a mid-river sandbar covered by noisy ducks and Canada geese. Some float away on cold water, lifted off the bar by the rising sea. 
It’s only 1140 but the sun appears to have already set for us behind a ridge of Douglass Island mountains. Then it slides into a notch from where its rays can reach our beach. “What a beautiful place we live,” says the daughter to the dog. She reminds me about the tide. We turn back, finding the beach around the point underwater but not a gap in the rocks through which we make good our escape. 
Back on Chicken Ridge, a raven stands atop the utility pole outside our kitchen window, sun lighting a slice of beak and feathers, leaving the rest in shadow. He chants, sending out little puffs of clouds from his beak. Water filling the tea kettle prevents me from hearing the actual song so I make up my own words:
Raven brought the first light
Raven brings this light
be grateful
be generous
be sharing on the solstice
or Raven will fly the light away
Thanks to the tilting earth
one season frames another,
snow collects on fallen leaves
until yielding to the crocus.
During rain forest winters
fickle winds cover and lay bare,
build ice frames for thickening water.
When death arrives in the rain forest
does he take beauty,
the memory of ice forming on stream rocks,
to where the living may not follow?
Neither man nor raven can answer. We rely on faith and
revelations from a dying man’s eyes. 
The weatherman promised cold temperatures, sun, and 40 knot winds. For once he was wrong about the wind. It usually appears with the sun in December. This pleases Aki, who thinks the wind rude to blow on days with a hard frost. 
Today I find the beavers rude for flooding out yet another of my favorite trails. We need this one through the old growth forest to access a beautiful North Douglas Island beach. They are using the trail as part of their new dam. Water seeping from it forms a glaciated surface on the trail that makes walking impossible without some sort of ice aids. Already water backing up behind the dam climbs the trunks of living trees. If nothing changes the trees will be soon dead. Still, I can’t get myself to dismantle the mortarless portion of the dam to stop the damage. Must remember to always wear ice cheaters on winter visits to the beach.
On the beach, a gang of gulls float close to the beach. They appear to ignore the little dog and she ignores them. (Have they reached an understanding?). We stand in shadow on the beach but can see the low angled sun strike Shaman Island, Lynn Canal, and the mountains beyond. The contrast brings out the beauty of dark and light. A light wind rises to drive small waves onto the beach. They splash water on rocks already iced over by yesterday’s waves, giving them a sinister beauty. Aki, discouraged by the rising wind tries to lead me into the comfortable woods. I linger, still hoping for whales. “You are probably right little dog,” I tell her, “too late for whales.” On the drive home I see my whale, a humpback, grabbing a snack in Smuggler’s Cove. Is he topping off for the long swim to Maui or one of the non-breeders who stay the winter?
Walking with Aki 
