listening

To get to my Wild café, I cross the frozen Bow. Mukluks bark against snow. The TransCanada calls out with its rolling rubber voice, and Banff Avenue answers in a rush of grinding gears and tight brakes. North-bank raven croaks to south-bank chickadee, comparing notes. At the vertex of this verge-of-the-wild X, a piece of watercolour-washed sky has fallen.