But this was summer in Manitoba.
So I perch on the gray concrete slab
In front of that blue shingle-sided home,
Toasting in the sun —
A fresh-boiled perogie to a bannock bun.
Alone, away from an annoying younger brother.
I feel observed — perhaps, nearby, a vigilant father.
Even on farms then,
Most traffic was motorized vehicles.
So, I watch, fascinated and ever-curious,
As an old dray with sides of slatted panels
Moves up the town road.
The driver and passenger perched on a board.
Two men, one young, one old.
The plodding nag halts, the wagon is secured,
If there is conversation, the words are unheard.
Into the load, one-handed, the strangers swing.
One in an inky leather vest wields iron tongs to sling
A blue-white block from the depths of soggy straw.
Later, I learn about ice houses.
Sometimes,
I still believe in magic.
