Shadowed street beneath the stars,
Sidewalks and driveways, yards and road,
All in shadow, lost from light,
The stars are faded, the windows are bright.

Ahead the light of a single pole,
A streetlight shining, a circle of light
A beacon both eerie yet calling to me,
Lighting the houses, lighting the road.

I walk towards in through the dark,
Toward the beacon, toward the light,
Is it a haven or is it a trap?
Yellow and limited, shadows and light.

I dream of a world,
Where there is no fur,
Where sheep produce more wool,
Than the huskies do,
Where you can vacuum it up,
And wait an hour,
And the floor is still clean,
And not covered again,
Where their coats are all smooth,
And not blowing out,
Where brushing helps out,
For more than an hour,
I dream of a world,
Where there is no fur,
Where the shedding of huskies,
Was done in a week.

How do you sleep, Virginia?
In that house he built you.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
In fair Virginia Dale.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
Now that he's gone.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
With that coffin under your bed.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
That metal box below you.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
His body lying cold.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
That box full of alcohol.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
Him pickled below your bed.
How do you sleep, Virginia?
It's not a raven tapping,
On your chamber door.

Two pair of eyes watch me,
So intense, so expectant.
Alive and full,
waiting and ready.

One pair icy blue,
Like the sky reflected off,
A pool of glacier water,
Living arctic water,
Living arctic sky.

The other pair warm brown,
Like the fertile silt in a stream,
Water so clear, silt so still,
Living forest water,
Living forest earth.

Two pairs so different,
Two pairs so alike,
The wild spirit of the far north,
The expectant knowledge of food.

The sun on the hills, lighting the golden leaves and green pines,
The golden leave rustling in the air as I drive by.
My window down, the soft breeze playing with my hair,
Slightly cold but nice this fine autumn morning.
The golden leaves and green pines rush by the window on both sides,
Like golden fire in spring green branches, the leaves and needles playing.
The car rushes around the turns like a bobsled down a shoot,
Or like a snake, weaving and winding, as I speed up into the mountians.
The breeze from the window becomes too much, the pressure in my ears too stong,
So I roll it up, locking myself in the car, separated from the nature rushing by.
But the sights are still so amazing, the colours, the beauty, the leaves, the needles,
Small lakes and rushing streams, making their way downward as I go up.
Up and up I got, further in and further up, leaving civilization and noise and man made things behind,
Each curve further from the concerns of life and and worries of every day.
The golden fire recedes, giving way to more evergreens, more grass, more flowers,
Autumn being marked not by golden leaves but by dry tan grass.
The mountains are visible ahead, great sleeping giants, waiting for release,
To rise up and walk the world once more, resounding echoes of their footsteps.
But for now they sleep, snow and glaciers in sharp relief against the creation granite,
Rock so old, so massive, so permanent, in a way the human world could never be.

Shadow and moonlight,
Darkness and starlight,
Cool gentle breeze,
On a clear winter night.

Juneau is watching,
The stick in my hand,
Back and forth moving,
Watching her watch.

Through cold winter air,
The stick quickly flies,
Moonlight reflecting,
Watching its arch.

Up Juneau jumps,
And runs like the wind,
After that long stick,
Like a bird on the wing.

Autumn leaves
  and winter snows,
Warmth does leave
  and cold comes in,
Mountain swims
  and hikes and sun,
Here one week,
  the next they’re gone,
Snowy footprints,
  and winter coats,
Autumn leaves,
  and winter comes.

Down it pours, the flowing rain,
  As the traffic slowly crawls,
On we go but barely move,
  And the rain more quickly falls,
Drivers afraid, more caution now,
  They hope there'll be no pain,
Nothing lasts and never ends,
Like rush hour in the rain.

A river flows, around our tires,
  Like the flood that we once knew,
We inch along and hope it ends,
  And we'll all make it through,
For slick in spots, the rain becomes,
  And our breaks might be in vain,
Nothing lasts and never ends,
  Like rush hour in the rain.

The sky is dark, the lightning flash,
  Lights up the flowing road,
The thunder crashes all around,
  But not near to explode,
The storm is rages ever on,
  And the traffic slows again,
Nothing lasts and never ends,
Like rush hour in the rain.

~By Ken Kennedy, May 31, 2014