“Trans-Canada” by Shannon McConnell

We point out every yellow diamond
sign, night danger. A wild moose
charging, fierce and unapologetic. We try
to slow down to catch a picture but they blur
with the evergreen landscape.
They don’t have those signs
on the prairies
or the west coast.

We watch the rocks grow
like scribbles in a flipbook from static
lines of the prairies jutting
into rocky patches of Western Ontario,
a heartbeat resuscitated
from sparse trees in forest patches
and broken rocks parted for pavement.

We count the kilometres between
cities, mark our movement by daylight
hours, and watch the flash of lakes develop
on the horizon.

With every passing provincial boundary
I feel a chapter close, a chunk of my life,
five years peeled off in strips, pressed
snuggly between worn pages, flex
the binding, eager for new additions.

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