or at least my home and native land-ish.
A half-moon congers
a frosted donut in the thin clouds of a dawn
still dark blue. Away to my right
the color scheme softens.
The long ling of license plates moves steady:
British Columbia, Washington, BC, BC,
Washington. The wait is long
enough for me to reflect on the weekend
spent sleeping in
with a familiar comforter
in a room once decorated
with little league trophies
and ancient Mariners.
The Vancouver radio station comes in clear,
plays a new song I don’t hate anymore.
The line moves quicker.
The donut starts to fade.
Right now, ten thousand crows have started their morning
commute over East Van on their way to dumpsters
across the city. Everyday
they repeat the same trip: at dusk
and dawn the sky is peppered with silhouettes
going to, or coming from home.
Friday Saturday and Sunday
were beers and breakfasts
with friends who knew me
before I started to shave;
but with each car-length
I move closer to Canada
a relieved excitement builds.
The border guard asks disinterested
questions that I answer reflexively:
where are you coming from?
What are you bringing back? What weapons
do you have? Where are you going?
Without pause I say: