Now it’s nearing summer, I want to recall ice, the burr of thin snow over solidified earth, the frothy mist of sunrise above the Alex Fraser bridge as two tugs (perhaps one called Old School and one Storm Surf) pass each other, pulling their lost forests in redolent chains. Already, things have changed. There is no longer an old crane tower. More machines whir upon the new development site. I recall the cold as the green swells upon this once-bare scrim of trees. Memory inhabiting the other. Life from these deaths, never apologetic, accountable always.