CITY OF ANGELS Illusions linger. Like, the hot air warps light       as rain or a phantom sea rising above the sand. Where the low-throated boom of shifting dunes       or the red sudden brilliance             of a vermilion flycatcher put to flight Seems oddly natural. Boundaries disappear & the tracks of a caribou       could as easily be the tracks of a lion or a dinosaur. Except there are no caribou. One day near Mount Assiniboine I went across the desert       just to stare into the Great Slave Aqueduct & recount             a litany of names connected by sweat & steel:       The Slave River flowing into the Peace, the Peace joining the       Little Smoky, then the Berland, the Athabasca, the McLeod,       the Pembina, the North Saskatchewan, the Red Deer, the       Bow, the Oldman & finally the Flathead, losing the train       rushing further south into Idaho. Contrast the snaking pit of cool, dark water with       the sere desert plain all around, nearly white with             the savage sun of an August afternoon. Hear. The captivating sounds of rushing water       headed for L.A. The City of Angels. Seeming utterly Magical.