we are driving along the splendid green tonsilled corridor of the north:
trembling aspen, poplar, tamarack, rock, muskeg and jack pine,
when my daughter asks a question, do you believe in god,
and i look around the walls of the earth's corridor and wonder
and i look around the walls of the corridor of my mind and wonder
and i look at my body, my bare arms extended and steering
and those resolute white birch, black spruce and the punctuating crow flying over
and i wonder, did my daughter ask a question;
are there questions here; answers;
and what are these trees doing in my mind
and where does the crow go as he passes over
and how do words hang like bats in caves with such light?
