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.