Joe Laughs

Joe paddles backward in the eddy

behind a rock, riffles like fu-manchu

frame Joe as he lingers in the river

soul-patch and checks his fit-bit

equipped with paddle-boarding app—

“6.1 miles” he shouts. An Osprey cheers

from it’s house atop power pole.

Joe is impressed I know

Osprey from Merganser.

Joe lives on this river,

confuses me with ignorance

of names and lack of fear—

standing on shaking legs down rapids

between rocks with igneous flare

like punk-rock bracelets we bought

from Hot Topic. Joe laughs at danger

even as he drops his lower half-in

to warm the river and mark it

home.

Dennis Lake

Cutthroat trout slurp gnats on the surface 

of shoals reflecting the Telkwa Range’s

sloping shoulders, somewhere hidden 

there a remnant Caribou herd munch lichen. 

Two clouds hover above a loon’s eerie call.

Who could give language to this grandeur? 

What name could contain this sacrament? 

Difficult tasks beckon the brave.

A pioneering settler, a century ago, 

ignored first peoples, remained 

unpolluted by native tongues, beheld 

this place and thought "Dennis."

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The Drive to Telkwa

Merritt

Sun slouched upward:

a free-range yolk

over-easy in a dirty

rusted cast-iron pan.

Kamloops

Smoke from the interior

mingled amongst pine

and sage, tawny hills and

sometimes green valleys.

Valemount

The gas station clerk

said it’s always busy:

no gas either direction

a long ways. And there’s an A’W.

Mcbride

Mountains were marbled with snow,

like a python’s black-and-white self-portrait—

a transparent but ultimately unsuccessful

attempt to appear artistic.

Vanderhoof

Clouds like white corduroy

dissipated over leather-skinned

road workers. The slow-stop

binary waited for deconstruction.