One Afternoon Around Lake Wascana

I'm on the trail (one of them) of Don Quixote, for whom every skew of reality comes through language. Coded language hundreds of years old. 

I name my bike, my bag and gear. I select my own names from whatever the breeze provides. This would be no ordinary bench,

no obvious view.

Here flowers abound.

Like the Don, I speak as if authored in some story.









Like him, I take enchantment from distant isle.

 Of course the path narrows . . .

a warning.

When I spot the white stallions emerging from the sea, I take off.

How I Spent Three Weeks West of Here

First came the Saskatchewan Festival of Words, and my Rembrandt rendering of Crozier, Currie, and Carpenter.

I drove west, stopping to visit my old friend and teacher Tom Wayman, pictured here on the former rail line past the former Lemon Creek internment camp above Winlaw, B.C.

On to Kelowna the next day, I shared the lawn with various children, siblings, nieces and nephews . . .

On the way back east, I stopped with my sister Susan for a couple of walks in Grasslands National Park.

Two days later, she spotted the sign at Herbert, my home town.

I gave two readings in this former Roman Catholic church owned now by Pat Donnelly.

And rode in the Herbert Rodeo Parade.

After that, I was exhausted from all the attention.