Moss laid a lime rug, quilted
by shade, early spores speckled
the air between columns of spruce. Bears
came out routing the loam, huffing.
Advancing on equinox, winter’s
stunted days begin to
expand,
light cleaving the afternoons
and the choked cold gush
of the Kispiox.
Returning here for seasonal work,
where a friend sings elegies
for a biker who cocked a rifle
at himself —
opened his chest like a long vowel, spooking
grouse into daylight.