In Anchorage, near University, flying abeam Chester Creek over birch and spruce cast shadows then slowed by red bike jacket—spandex on go fast bike flushing out moose blendied into trailside trees
Dark light dark light bounce
Blind see blind see go
In a world without mirrors
I always would be 30
taking the young man’s open path
avoiding my reflection
in the eye of the truly young
Near an ocean offering no hint
of salt, just mud
under skies lit by sunlight
filtered by the works of man
find a place where picture windows
frame wilderness
next to prints of
sled dogs at Denali
where on wind change
you can smell Alaska,
stand in a birch wood forest
ever looking for an opening
into settled ground.
Memories float off this beach like fireweed down in August
fleeing from hiding spots in eagle feathers and fish bones
now abandoned by life
In one an eagle flies from an overhead spruce bough
circling then dropping to the sea
submerging talons that pull skyward
a herring dinner. My daughter, then toddler
silently watches as others clap amazement.
I want to dive into the memory
surfacing just after the capture
to ask if my baby feels pity or admiration
this child of forest and beach
where nature forms the outlines of our lives
where she falls asleep to the music of
wind and tides.
Somewhere in Afghanistan
the covering power of snow restores
beauty to scarred ground.
Drifting down through thickening skies
flakes loiter on frozen earth but
undone by pumping hearts
melt on
bare skin of the new widow
entwined hands of generous lovers
cooling coffin wood.
Today I feel the seasonal slide to darkness
the five minute a day tumble past the bright holiday islands
Halloween, Thanksgiving.
A peaceful fall from summer to solstice
when wise Northmen spend stored energy of the light
on joy
others on self destruction.
I never notice the growth of night
until the last bear finds its den
the last cruise ship heads south
the last salmon flesh dissolves in Fish Creek.
I have worn the suit he wears
employed the dignified trot he
uses to pass beneath these sunrise pastels
past that observing raven now stirring
with interest as the suit bites into a
Mac something sandwich on the run.
Raven
when I wear that suit again
pleaser sing out if I walk in
ignorance past so much beauty.
The wind blowing off the glacier has a familiar bite, as familiar as the feel of these boots moving through soft wet snow, as comfortable as this trail bisecting a young willow thicket. I could be in Bethel on the trail to Steamboat Slough. It would have to be Spring there because of the warm temperature and I would be pumping along behind a small team of sled dogs, not following a poodle mix in a red coat. Somehow the memories power through all the differences between then and now and I ignore the negative of this place, pushing aside the beep beep beep of machines clearing the runway and the dominating noise of the Coast Guard rescue helicopter landing in a snow storm.
If I could I would dial back my color receptors until all becomes gray, black and white and fall into the richness of a black and white movie made just before Technicolor. This stormy day is about values, not colors, and the push and pull of snow pasted on dark tree bark by a persistent wind.
Aki, for whom everything is black and white, cringes when the wind lifts her ears so I take a shortcut back to the car and drive over to the old Thlinght village site. There we walk in the lee of old growth spruce and listen to waves on the beach. Once I follow Aki through the trees, and across a foot thick blanket of snow to the beach. Here again is a time to dial back the color and concentrate of the stark lines between sea, gravel beach and snow that converge together in my mind where the point pushes out to sea.
I should spend December in the dessert waiting for love renewed,
for the promise fulfilled.
There the morning star rises before the moon
as warm wind softly clears the air.
Instead I follow a steep path to happiness
through America’s shopping malls
finding it slick underfoot,
falling,
deafened by the economic sirens
blinded by the bling,
disappointed but not knowing why.
I see this man on a roof at sunset, steading a ladder for a climbing friend. looking down and away from the sunset. Down the hill figures on a nearby totem pole face the already darkening mountain but also the glass sided courthouse reflecting the colors of the bruised sky for wooden eyes only to see.
Walking with Aki 