OK, now to my situation, I've just two months ago
moved into Alberta and I'm about an hour and a half drive
from the Rocky Mountains and I have quite a thing
about mountains.
And about two weeks ago in Canadian Thanksgiving,
I went up to Banff and sat on top of a mountain
there called Mount Norquay and this poem is about my sitting
on Mount Norquay.
"Dry grass pressed flat and sheep turds
under the eye, the wild ski slope over Banff.
One wild strawberry among blossoms this odd October.
A lonely grasshopper on immense hill in the distance
downward smoke filled glacier valleys mountains
one time push back.
I am standing under the chairlift.
Empty seats dangle over me, never stopping rising uphill.
I look up.
Clouds rise from behind a mountain meeting the chairs
flying over them.
If I look at the sky, I'll fall backward down the hill.
Trail under chairlift cable steep hard on legs, my head
down to climb.
I see coke bottles, cigarette packages, peanut bags,
film cartons.
I sit on stump and look down slush to a ski cafe imaging
bush workers building the chairlift axis
cable, steel stanchions on steep slope.
Another job in the Bush down below.
Someone in white hat cutting celebration ribbon,
his first visit to Norquay.
Berry bushes here for centuries, unhappy people
at foot of mountain.
Each chair has its own groan.
I lower my head. 'Climb one peanut shell each 20 feet.'
Said people sitting down climbing the Rockies.
One player's cigarette unlit.
I put it at base abstention, one cigar in plastic holder,
one bottle opener, candy bar wrappers
I've never seen before.
Sheet of paper.
Your picture has just been taken.
One Black American penny dreams of lost wallets.
A letter on green paper.
'Dear Dana.
Hi.
Guess where I am.
I'm on the ski lift going up mountain Norquay at Banff.
It's a one half hour trip and no one
wanted to come with me so seeing as I have a pen and paper I
thought I'd drop you a line.
We're having a ball in Calgary.
I'm going out with two guys, Mike [INDISTINCT]
he's an engineer-- and Ron Robinson.
Wow, I really think Ron is short,
but men you can't tie anyone down.
He's about 5'10" really short built.'
I leave the trail, sit on stump stare
into eyes of old Rocky Mountain sheep.
He is the leader.
I wave my hand, he wiggles his ear.
Down the slope, 50 sheep with lambs follow him.
I stand there, talk to them.
They look at me and eat grass.
Their horns sloping behind their heads.
The mountain cools and the sheep lie down.
I wave at old leader and run down the slope.
Imagine, I open the door.
There is a dark washroom, urinals
smell of braxle above sinks.
Cigarette on the floor and those strange candy bar wrappers."