How to name people of taste

You hike alone,
away from a stream of words,

or those wanting an ear—
past the shopping cart

abandoned, rusted metal,
the red plastic handle tilted

at an odd angle, this twisted
body a common urban animal

screaming Safeway to the raven,
to the magpie, even an elk only yards

from a stuffed Bow river
on Mother’s day, each foot forward

feeling heavier with spring’s liquid
diet. You walk after last night’s

filling of draught beer,
the intoxicating way a young man

smiled, gathered you in
to the conversation.

There is no caution in you
as you escape to the river’s other side,

that century old hotel, an elegance
of concrete and cars, the moneyed

line-up of language
spilling like wine into your glass.

The frozen arrangement of mountains
is neatly positioned out the window,

chairs strategically paired
beside the view, and all those people

stream along, inside
out, their flow flooding

with a wonder that melts you
faster than you can say defrost.