The stuff of time is elusive as
elk at the dawn of the last ice age–
musk scent of herd, hoof cracks on ice,
fast-splattered snow, then silence as
in the nave of the heart. Still,
like smoke wisps as if from
foragers’ fires, or wolf genes
in terriers hot on a trail, I sometimes
construe through the bones of trees,
antlers of caribou in Cote Saint-Luc.
margaretmaryjoyce 