Last Places #1


by

copyright©Jerry D. McDonnell, 2013

 Published in: Over the Transom #23--2013

Mysterious wind chimes in a land of wood and rock,
Hot metal ticking down the engine heat of my rust colored
’72 Ford pickup parked on the AlCan Highway:
Late May east of Whitehorse, the Yukon Territory.

A short bridge crosses the Yukon River here. A bridge,
An effort of steel and sweat for man, a pitiful patch on the earth
Connecting this solitary highway slicing a wound through this vast
Last land of, not the wild, but the free, like thousands of miles of a bandage.

The breakup of winter is in retreat; the mighty Yukon River moves justly
Without mercy into spring carrying and caressing all in its methodical path.
All is quiet, not a car or truck within sight or sound. A silent pickup on an
Empty highway, yet the mysterious sound of wind chimes in this land of wood and rock.

On the riverbank, standing in melting snow, I find the mystery lies at my feet.
Ice. Small slivers of delicate ice floating on the surface of the river
Gently playing beautiful tones from benevolent collisions, like
Fairies playing a symphony with small harps and delicate flutes.

When I die I would like to think I’d be one of the musicians playing
Musical ice on such a place as the last throes of a breakup on a mighty
River. And if one is lucky, they may be able to hear my song.
It will probably be jazz, gentle jazz . . . but a little up beat.
_______________________________

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