It was more than a decade since snowflakes landed
on my nose, one foot slipping on wet leaves alerted
the other, while words rose like a skein of migrating
Canadian geese squawking words up into my mind.

Where the arctic begins green spruce gives way
to barren tundra, K’och’en, Cloud People, live in
the dimension of white. Here a god is needed, to
fill in the blanks.