February 29, 1992 at the Cottage

- William J. Gibson -

 

I watched the snow falling

through the light of the yellowed streetlight’s illumination

which was a city illumination,

outrageous in its intrusion

here on the point on Georgian Bay.

 

There should have been war parties of Iroquois walking lightly

through the snow‑filled woods.

 

Snowshoed killers looking for the French priests.

Working through the woods searching for Huron villages.

 

I pulled on my boots and coat, gloves and toque.

I left the warm kitchen. A misguided urge to breath cold air.

 

I went out and stepped through the light at the end of the driveway,

turned left up the road. The wind and the snow walked with me.

 

I quickly reached the dark stretch. Then the next streetlight.

Then the next stretch, devoid of light,

but glowing with white ground reflection

of the moon or the snow that was falling.

 

It coaxed night vision gains out of my bookish eyes.

Most of the cottage driveways choked with snow,

windows flapped and locked.

More cottages, more streetlights.

Then the turn around the end of the cove.

Then the corner and the turn back up towards the village.

No lights here for half a mile.

Just trees on the right, trees on the left.

 

Snow on the ground, snow banked beside the snow and ice covered road.

They plow fast up here. And sand.

Then the sun tries to melt it all in the mornings and fails.

 

The wind talks on but I haven’t been listening.

I listen for the steps of the Iroquois.

I wait for an arrow in my chest.

 

I hear the snowmobile long

before its light turns up the road from the shore,

burns past my back and lights the snow on the road.

He roars past.  Roars up the slope of the road.

Disappears, his light.  Slowly fades, roar.

 

The Iroquois are shaking in their snowshoes.

I walk on and they are impressed.

 

The trees reach up for the wind.

The wind talks on and I listen. I listen and I swear

I can hear the roar of the bay, the waves roaring onto rocks.

 

My moustache is iced and my boots crunch the snow.

The bay is frozen solid and I hear waves.

The snow slips between their branches

and kisses the old snow of the ground.

 

We know the winter cannot last.

We all wait for spring to grow louder and race up and past.

I hear the waves under the ice

howling for the wind.