where the writers are
Vancouver Island

I've been up north all week.  It was cold, grey, some nights starry-bright, the North Star almost straight ahead, the Big Dipper filling with cloud.  Even brackish water froze:  clumps of sedge poked through the ice.  A bald eagle sat on the tip of a fir tree.  The ocean--Strait of Georgia rather--came in the windows.  Islands floated in the background:  Thormandy, Texada, Lasqueti, and my favourite, for the name, Mistaken.