Bulkley Valley

I come from a place
where weddings are in country halls,
grocery stores are attached to ever changing shopping malls,
and the mountain views footnote our conversations
because if you mention them you’re obviously not from here.
Where each house, each party, each vacation spot
is somewhere down a dirt road or just past a parking lot.
Each lake day, each drive way, each high school play
is filled with some face you know.
Where the grade twelve grads can’t wait to leave
and those with degrees, or diplomas,
or with moms who are now grandmas
can’t return soon enough

As if when we were born beneath the gaze of a glacier,
our hearts came out as compasses set to here.
East of the ocean, west of the Rockies,
south of the wilderness, and north of the cities.
Here where the mountains begin
and the rivers meet,
where the pine beetle stops
and the winters rarely retreat.
We disagree on pipelines, and gender neutral signs,
on homelessness and broken promises,
on downtown cans and traditional lands,
but somehow we always choose the same MP
Around fire pits and hockey sticks
these differences somehow fade
they’re still close to our hearts
but most of all we’re just proud to be from this place.


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