Birds capered along winter walk
A thin pole held few bricks half in air
Bitter glare soaked a wall of somber cracks
A pale hair of rolling cycle swung passing his corner

Faint cases lit up slowly on the sheer glass
Bubble foam blurred pot water with her thick coat stilled belo w the floor
Black keys flew over the hard suit’s papers in the ever echo of their rings
Whose bleak trails of all months fell in a few late whispers
And the very days stirred their palm cuts

Dank mizzle crept by a path of needle snails
There in the dark creek’s dirt the bamboo fragments stranded beneath the ripples
Where beyond the heavy willows a water tower of decades’ stone halted in gale

Endlessly the crowd traced the stops
Powdery lights of evening traffic strung through the bus’s steam panes
Which blossomed as fireworks at the stark crossing
That tranced my sight

As a headlight of tri-lamp spotted the reflected mess, diving into the moment split, the freights were bedded on the bark barrier. In vague copse the dusky, parallel lines deposited, where the wild was plowed in layers. At intervals the late sky undulated with the brook-shaved snow brim, while the sleeper stole among the tunnels.

Pine steep tilted high, bare peak teared above, tiny curb paled below. A flood of ice fragmented the glaucous creek into a cubist relief. Over a flat distance, the soapsuds poured down the ridge.

While the dim car idled in the rhythmic quiver, the hard shoulder swelled ahead. There a firm bin of forest green bared with gravel. The fearsome palms failed to break the bear-proof garbage can in the guide’s tale. Then, the vast serenity flaked the leaves away.

In a windy winter dusk,
A blast sounded through the street;
A cloud mushroomed high from the sidewalk.
A man’s shade, bowed slightly toward the stool
Beside a sooty tank, picked up a plastic bag
Of squared puffed rice for the mother and son,
While the little fire flickered in the traffic trails.
And the strangers hurried their steps by.

In a yellow smog, her soles,
Two feet away the curb,
Halted on the asphalt,
Staring at the cabs flitted by,
Then, with two tumid sleeves
Adhered her old plain coat,
Crept along the curb for seconds.
That tarnished colours blurred off,
Where she turned at after,
And swung her head once
In the sticky smell of steamed smog,
Cutting across the road.

Four hours past noon
The azure thaws the north flat’s top
Where the sheer glitter of western
Billows over the argent railings
Seeping into the tremulous broad leaves
Whose sing sprawls the green

An avalanche cut off Highway 1 a quarter back. Distance trains had strayed in bland light since then. At ten to one, fresh dust twinkled on the cabin windows. The sky spun along the first loop ramp of Highway 95 into the uptown. In a minute, the thick ice rent on the riverside beyond the steel bridge, where the pallid green departed with words.

Soon, the highway bent at a vast railway station. Worn wagons shifted everywhere in the shrubs. While snowcap steeped in the somber haze, white plains scattered with shanties on the right, and the far shine singed the aspen.

Brick buildings tiled the perceptible border of Golden. A wind wafted by some sparse branches of thin pines on the cliff. As the flat roofs slightly broadened above the oblique plain, an azure river rose behind. And a green capped timber bridge was planted on the white shore of Kicking Horse.

Mounds flattened a mile after. Simple inns were a floor off the highway. Swerving across the road to the left, we were dropped in a car park. A white restaurant with yellow banners lay in front of a blue inn. The rounded tables were little distorted behind the glass wall of the hall. While the cheap bread lingered under the grey sky, the winter melon soup tinted the wrinkled tablecloth.

Dense pine tops stuck a few feet out the slope. At the brink the wind sliced the glacier, baring bent rocks above soiled snow. Some concrete frame lapped the submerging vale, silencing the intense shine in which the frail branches trailed away. Sallow piles wrapped a white lane. The hopper cars frosted along.

Yonder leaves broke at another riverside in a moment. Moss water thinned the mist. The mountains were afar. Miles of cargoes intersected on the dark gravel above the patterned plain of sere grass. While Highway 1 was lifting, random ponds muddled the distant woods.

Obscured smoke rose later against the black pines, and the darkness fell behind the viridescent billows. The limpid foam melted into a frozen lake, where the mild clouds crammed the mountain sky. Certain reflections smashed on the left. A giant red roof of white triangles capped the empty suites beyond the flecked ice. There, some snow springs spaced the steep.

Forest split at times. Billboards scattered along. The concrete piers of the dank rail sailed in the mizzle, and the tale of the brick bear of Revelstoke was cut at the watery fork. Some strips of haze eclipsed the vale scape across the Rogers Pass, where the faint luster powdered in the snow sheds.