A secret kingdom surrounded by windswept prairie, feedlots, and box store towns
Waterton Lakes National Park
It’s March; the snow turns to rain on the mountains — argillite shaped by snow, glaciers, and running water
Mountains riveted to spikes and hollows that make me think of bony noses on old men’s faces.
On the park’s edge I hike halfway up Sofa Mountain, happy to sit and draw, to ask questions like, “Where does all that water go?”
and
“What will this summer be like if the river levels are already that low?”
Another summer of forest fires?
Even under last August’s sickly sky and red sun,
As millions of acres of forest burned across neighboring Montana, British Columbia, and Washington
The park kept its magic —
Roots of trees exposed like witches’ fingers
Branches dense with lichen
Lakes bound by rock amphitheaters
Pines bent to rock like cemeteries of fractured bones
Tangerine moons and silver water
The park was pure magic.
It still is.
I want to know it, to rub up against it.