So I’m driving my guy to the hospital
to find out what’s wrong.
(Nothing by mouth after midnight,
be showered, shaved, there before six.) This is April,
and we’re on daylight-saving. Dark still.
Vic General was hacked
out of hard grey rock and coastal
forest. Douglas fir, Arbutus,
tangled undergrowth and serrated Oregon grape
clustered with flowers that long to be blue and spherical,
overlap the edge of the parking lot.
I turn off the engine, walk over to the ticket machine
which wants a toonie or my Visa card –
it doesn’t care which.
We seem to be the only ones here at this ungodly hour.
Just a few cars – reflecting the long arc lights
fluorescing over precisely-white-lined tarmac –
and one insistent little bird
whose clear notes pouring into the dark
could break your heart
or fill it full of joy
though the branches of the trees are black and dense
and it’s impossible to see
the singer of the song.
– Anne Swannell
