

not about creation, not about destruction This is about a pod of orcas swimming an early morning Juan de Fuca and a man there in a small skiff, praying for deliverance; this is about dolphins jumping alongside tankers on the Salish, how they veer north, indifferent to the idea of a race; this is about a great blue heron, half-hidden in the rushes on the Fraser delta, head tucked beneath her wing while overhead a seaplane sputters; this is about a beaver plowing through red algae spread across the surface of the slough at Terra Nova, where long before he lodged himself; this is about a mallard, one webbed foot ravaged, who spins, spins furiously, in a Stanley Park stream, about how no one yet has waded in, but someone will, to grab hold, raise high, then release, his wings to be caught by a gust, how it lifts him up over the willows out across the body called English Bay and on to the slough, the river, the sea, the strait to reach the edge of the great Pacific, then beyond, alive in the world and moving with all others.
A hymn, really, about life. Beautiful poem, Alan. Thank you!
Story lengthens with ancient tales told with words, wings and propeller planes sound. Life begins and ends with movement so subtle a splash of colors profound provides an aura of mystical mystery held in awe.