I’m sitting in a room in Prince George
Where the sun is starting fires in the trees
While Canis Lupis hunts its last vole
Without worry of veils of snow
Or the balance between keeping warm
And spending precious joules
So important for a svelte figure
This far from New York.

In this room the talk is of spring
And how the veil is lifted
Allowing new kindling to be crystallized
And the coyote’s carcass to bleach
to feed the raven
Perched on the stop sign
Outside the window
Of the room
Where lunch is now served on
Clean stoneware. Where the tomatoes
Glisten in oil threatening to conflagrate
The spring salad mix.