Poem: Aspen Bush in Spring

All photos courtesy of author.

White snow melts into mud.

Above, bright sun, bare branches,

catkins, a scent reminding me of

cinnamon and caramel,

but nothing like either. I stop,

look up, inhale, try to hold

that fragrance in my mind.

A pair of squirrels, chipmunks,

birds I cannot name. I slip and

almost fall. Bark glows white

in the sun, red dogwoods,

yellow leaves beside the path.

Clear air. A hillside carpeted in

little bluestem, bearberry. On

the plateau above, lilac crocuses,

invading buckbrush, wolf willow.

The trail loops, leads me back

to the trees. Cross a stream, climb

another hill. Other walkers pass, smile

hello. Their laughing dogs are leashed.

Somewhere deer, raccoons, coyotes,

porcupines are hiding. Paths worn under

chokecherries, marks of hooves and claws.

In the car, my boot leaves mud on the clutch.

Ken Wilson.

KEN WILSON lives and works in Regina, Saskatchewan, Canada. His Ph.D. project is a study of the Regina Bypass, a new highway around the city, using walking as his primary methodology. His words and photographs can be found at https://readingandwalking.ca.

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