The First Snowfall
Late afternoon sky,
the sun blotted by ruffled clouds,
tinted a mellow gold.
The day seems languid, but daylight no longer lingers.
It is the first snowfall of the season,
still waters of Nanaimo river, mirror soaring pines and arbutus,
their serrated silhouettes melting into the molten waters.
Mallards and pintails sweep low,
skim the waters and dive up into the fresh wintry air,
to ride on cushions of sudden gusts of ocean breeze.
All is cloaked in silence, so eerie.
Standing on a wooden bridge
flanking the river,
I watch a heron poised on a rocky ledge
eyeing me with a curious stare,
spellbound by the magic of winter in Nanaimo.