Too cold too cold too cold
the air cracks and ticks
with bone emptiness.
Inuvik’s streets are bare.
February’s new sun
pauses north-northwest,
reaches streaks of red
over ridges of stiff snow.
Flagstaffs of smoke rise straight
from lines of rowhouses, painted
the colour of tropical fruit:
mauve mustard emerald.
At the town dump:
twelve ravens,
each atop
a crooked birch.
Smears of tar in a tree,
feathers balled out black,
they wear white bibs
where beak-breath frosts.
Dark as winter lakewater,
they, at least, stay put.
Twenty four eyes shine jet,
inspect me, curious:
What is this creature
out here in the cold?
- Inuvik, NWT
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