NORTHERN KID

childhood memories of a yukon spring

Dirt and rock roads slush brown. Stunted pines shrug off snow in a chorus of huffs. Dirt eats snow. Bikes come out of sheds. Snow pants fold and hibernate. Skinny bears lick sleep out of their eyes. The winter lazy sun starts to climb again. Dads shave off their beards. Pale skin squints at the sky. Teeter totters thaw. Swing sets dangle over dirty ponds. Puppies tumble down driveways. The hum of the first drowsy bee and drunken fly. The crack of river ice. The chankle-shush of ice rafts kiss colliding. Frozen fish thoughts evaporate. A lynx on the bank thinks thought bubbles in pink flesh. The neighbourhood puddle is knee deep. Kids jump in still chewing their last piece of toast, strawberry sticky fingers mix with mud splash. The pussy willow promises hundreds of fluffy mini rabbit paws. The great melt reveals a lost teddy. Mom and Dad lock their bedroom door to play longer. Everything is wet but the sun’s breath is warm. Ravens brunch on a rabbit, their table set with mud, blood and snow. Daily pilgrimages to the hill reveal tiny warriors pushing upward, braving frost. A new friend moves in from the south. Her bicycle has a glitter banana seat. Warriors turn to purple princesses on crocus hill. Birdsong competes with kidsong. Chainsaws bite winters dead. Dad’s hands fix and build and add. Mom’s hands mend and talk and make. Kittens are born under the wood stoves floor. Too many Dad says. Three are flushed away. The skating pond sails boats. The clouds make plans with the sun for a harvest of mosquitos. The wind speaks in pollen. Ditches dry up and burst fireweed towers as a northern spring turns toward summer.