Yukon Territory, Canada

Sliding north into the endless night,

warmth vanishes down into the snow

of a failed quinzhee. Her earnest face glows 

without the day, the sun, the moon. Light

simmers in her delight of being

where she belongs. She is Fey. She is Wild

with all the glee of a reckless

child traumatizing. Without warning

joy gives way to bitter white noise. Exposed,

the blistering bite isolates—destroys

all I would keep, replaced by dim under

standing: keep walking. My memories disposed;

leaving only whistling echoes,

and tears, like mirrors, shattered by 

      her laughter.

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