Inuit women tell me
if you pluck the snowy
owl quick enough its skin
glows a brilliant blue.
I am trying to find beauty
in the crystalline edges
of window panes, lines
between ice and sky.
Snow comes feathery.
Days shaped by cloud.
I start to see colours
that appear as spectres.
At night I turn the tiny seal-
shaped amulet in my palm.
Thumb the grooves, tracing
carved lines in whalebone.
In my dreams I can no longer
distinguish the sound of my
love’s footsteps in the snow from
that of a predatory bear.
On day 279 I sketch a young
Inuk woman. She says she is
happy that her grandmother’s
eyes will be recorded.
Elle Stear
