the idea of going to Phoenix vanished, the bird gone back to ashes. because of going to Canada where the tides are most extreme on earth and being carried away by the pull. because of going to a place where the sun is brightest and the river comes in brown and alive after returning to the red mud that will take you into it. because of going to a great northern peak, where everything you do and say and feel is a peak. because it felt like being at the top of a mountain, though the landscape was at sea level, and we drove on skinny roads with white faded lines in the middle through breathlessly clean farm land and fall Atlantic foliage, where the breeze tasted like water and big red apples grew at the side of the road, waiting for juicy mouths, driving around in a big black car with tinted windows listening to Pink Floyd—a woman singing gospel, “oh oh uh woah,” peaking, loud and incredible along the waterway and French land, stopping on a hillside of Indian graves beside a small ancient chapel overlooking the water, sitting in the car listening to “Wish you were here,” god sitting there with us, high and amazed. and it was a day where I felt my father joined to me by the wrist and heart, sitting with me in the backseat, smoking cigarettes and laughing. and we got out to visit the graves, and I was told not to go to Phoenix, but to stay. my head and heart exploded, and I knew nothing but love for the two women and the high country land. and the rocks became soft for my head and hands, and the swollen river bank grasses became dry for me to lie down, and the dead leaves turned to flowers across the river, new red and white buds watering me, dreams that heal my mind