July 22, 2017

We slipped loose of the silvery Sandon Valley

with the blistering clang of your '99 Pathfinder.

I was burnt out on late August

and trying to use up the sunlight

as we wound the heavy green of the truck

up the old logging road.

All around us the walls of mountains were swolle...

July 22, 2017

I prodded your pelt, 

shared the soft pain 

of an electric shock – 

the buzz of currents passing. 

I saw 

           (I saw, I think, I saw) 

you once in the forest 

with your back 

arched against 

the rough grain of bark. 

Your milk fur was sweet 

s...

July 20, 2017

The only way to properly appreciate Lorna Crozier’s poetry is to sit down and read it. Then read it again. One might say that it’s not what the soul wants but instead what it needs. Okay, that was bad, but writing about books is intimidating. Writing about Lorna Crozie...

July 7, 2017

Grandpa Sid and Uncle Lyle had always been good friends, even though they are related by marriage and not blood. They are strong men, salt-of-the-earth men, built-their-business-from-the-ground-up men. Both lived and worked the stubbled plains of Southern Alberta, a pl...

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