The Role of Light in Creating Space
by Tor Strand
We come from Birdridge,
running Earth’s sharp edges,
jamming our toes, obeying
an unmapped wanting.
The bore tide fills Turn-Again with a wave
of outer ocean, a long white cap from up here.
We surf with our eyes.
Far above the snow on South Suicide
We start climbing after dinner
but it’s Alaska in July—so what matters—
we run loose scree above the treeline,
play and forget, snap twigs
against a hanging sun, building sorrow.
We breathe toward dusk along the Arm,
a lane of light
from ridge to ridge.
There is no God to speak of.
Why the eye goes to the brightest place,
I do not know.