Dall sheep on the hillside by the Icefield Parkway,
river sounds from the Sunwapta flowing over rocks.
 
Me, Mary Ellen and Jack together, arm-in-arm,
on the way north to Jasper, high in the Rockies
 
surrounded by glaciers in the bright summer sun.
                        

On certain foggy nights
the only sound
in our third floor apartment
in our quiet neighborhood by the lake
was the sonorous lowing
of the foghorn
like an ancestral spirit
calling us home.
 
We were young and in love
in that first apartment
where shadows on the bedroom wall
shifted with the slow turning
of the lighthouse light
reflected off the sky
in patterns too complex to discern.
 
It’s hard to explain
how it all came together,
our love, the shifting light,
the lowing of the foghorn,
but I can tell you this:
making love in that back bedroom
was like curling up in the hand of God.