When Earl Birney looked across the night
to gentle peaks and soft, slumbering roads
little beacons of light, upholding the horizon,
a dragon waiting at the city entrance
roared across the Lion’s Gate
In the rush of springs
the pulse of wilderness

I am searching now for the vision that stirred him
his homage to a fleeting moment
quietly unsettling and awesome to behold
Was the world more wholesome then?
Was it wiser in its dreams?

I wish I had walked that trail
to meet him sitting there
Amidst the boughs of fir and sacred cedars,
Under starlight and a waxing moon
composing a private revelation
For generations yet unborn

Vancouver, December 19, 2007