We were Sunday drivers. The tide brought pack ice into the Turnagain Arm. miles of surface ice moving faster than you can run. God's slurpee. Trees with branches on one side only, hula dancers pointing away from the wind. Moose Flats flat, but mooseless. Man walking on Portage Lake, black speck against spectrum of whites. Moody blue mists in icy canyons. Men in the air, held to the icefall with nylon and aluminum. Waah-waah, tracks in the snow. Headlights and kids in round colorful layers. The eagles are back. The redpolls are singing. A rock stands out on the cliff miles away, no haze. NO HAZE. The fat magpie will converse for go-mart popcorn. Our own dogs will converse whether or not we want them to. Kids float on skates across pools in the marsh. A model plane tumbles in the sky like ravens playing, and the controller is out of sight, but you can see his talent.
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