It was a startling thing to see in downtown Toronto, this unadorned and pitiless majesty.

Had the bird taken it’s victim in mid-flight, plucking it from unsuspecting air?
Had it tracked it’s prey at great velocity, and then it’s sharp, sudden talons piercing the animal, and then the wood upon which the creature had been scurrying?

My eyesight is not great, and the bird receded back into the camouflage of the tree. I stared up at that tree– that tree which could have been two centuries old– for a long time, hoping to see that world flicker back into mine, but it did not, and this vivid life of blood and bone would remain known but unseen. A reminder on a cold, November day of this other world, of how quickly, astonishingly and with unsentimental finality, it will one day make it’s presence known to each of us.

******************************************

On a winter day while hiking through the woods, Rachelle’s father Terry came across the imprint of an owl’s wings and body in the snow. From the tracks, he could see that it had been following a mouse of some sort, and then swooped down, picking the creature up from the surface and carrying him up and off to death. He took a photograph of the imprint, and it’s amazing to see such a moment crystallized, to see just the shadow of this small and brutal divinity.

It has always reminded me of this poem by Mary Oliver:
White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
by Mary Oliver
Coming down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn’t darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.

As many of you know, Rob Ford and I were enrolled at Carleton University in Ottawa at the same time, and it was there where we became last call drinking buddies. Over the years we’ve stayed in contact– usually messaging one another late at night when partying alone–and I’ve been lucky enough to have Rob write some letters for my family and I.

On behalf of my uncle, who was frustrated by his golf club’s new policy that forbid members from feeding any wildlife (squirrels) on the course:

To Whom it May Concern:

Cripes! What’s the harm in tossing a squirrel a bit of your hot dog bun?! A squirrel’s weight is a squirrel’s own goddamn business (LOL!!). What are you, a Soviet golf club? Do you make everybody use the same clubs, too, just to even the playing field so that a man of ambition and means is crippled? I tell you, its a disgusting example of over-governance, is what it is, and if somebody, like Lester Murray, wants to buy a hot dog he should be able to do anything he wants with that damn hot dog, including feeding it to a squirrel!

If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call my AM radio show directly.

Yours Truly,

Rob Ford

On behalf of my wife, who was unable to get on the recreational league ice hockey team that she wanted:

To Whom It May Concern:

This is Toronto Mayor Rob Ford here.

If Rachelle Maynard is not a first-liner on the Annex Assassins for the winter league of 2014, I will shut down Bill Bolton arena and fire all the assholes that work there. Make no mistake, I will do it–closing stuff gives me a hard on.

If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call my AM radio show directly.

Yours Truly,

Rob Ford

On my behalf, as a reference for a job I was applying for at Riverdale Farms.

To Whom it May Concern:

I have known Michael Murray for nearly 25 years, and never in my life have I seen a man who is better with animals. Did you know that he once rescued a baby pigeon and then fed the thing frozen peas– one at a goddamn time– every four hours until it died of natural causes? He did. Jesus damn Christ, he did. I still get weepy just thinking about it.

If you have any questions or concerns, please don’t hesitate to call my AM radio show directly.

Yours Truly,

Rob Ford

PS: Just a reminder, municipal funding for Riverdale Farms is coming up for review next year.

A big, heaving white guy, he’s the kind of man that gets all red in the face and pumps his fist in the air shouting stuff like, “the gravy train must stop!” He has tiny, receded eyes that make him look as if he’s spent most of his life underground, hair that’s thin, sparse and so absent of colour as to appear transparent and emits the general vibe of a defeated salesman. His life has been buckshot with the sort of Frat Boy controversy you’d expect from a guy that grew up idolizing Rush Limbaugh and the CFL.

He’s not really into the brainy, micromanaging of governance, preferring instead to “take the bull by the horns.” Very often he does this by calling in to talk radio stations or writing letters to his constituents. These are some of Rob Ford’s recent missives:

To a 17 year-old suspected of committing a recent robbery:

Dear Mister Winston,

It’s Rob Fucking Ford here, Mayor of Toronto.

You’re scum.

I don’t want you in my city. I want you to leave my city. You’re a loser and a disgrace to the honest, hard-working citizens of my city. You think it’s cool to hold-up a gas station? Well, it’s not. We need gas to drive our cars. Did you ever think about that? I bet you didn’t. It’s not a victimless crime. You’re a loser and I swear, if I ever hear of you doing something like that in my city again I am going to take you out on the football field and make you my cheerleader, you bitch.

To a militant cyclist who organized a protest on a busy street at rush hour to  bring attention to unsafe biking conditions:

Dear Ms. Hairy Hippy Chick,

It’s Rob Ford here, yeah, that Rob Ford, the Mayor of your city. Lady, it’s not the 60’s, shave your armpits, get a job and learn to drive a goddamn car! If I see you protesting on one of my friggin’ streets again I am going to run you over in my Escalade. I’ll enjoy it. I want to rid my city of people like you and the goddamn pigeons who shit all over the place. You’re of the same diseased flock, as far as I’m concerned. Look out for me, license plate reads  “Go2Hell” and I drive fast, faster than Batman.

To a store in Chinatown that is suspected of selling bootleg movies:

Dear Mr. Chang or whatever,

It’s Mayor Rob Ford and I you boss. You do laundry for me, understand? No legal-legal to sell Hollywood star movies! Very bad! I shut you down like Jackie Chan, unless you me give Big Man Me movies I want. Big Man Me like Jennifer Aniston and movie with fast car and crash, understand? Keep them coming or I on you like white on rice.

To a graffiti artist known as DMC:

Dear Coward who hides behind the coward name DMC:

What the hell does DMC stand for?

Dumb Moronic Candy-Ass?

I tell you what Rob Ford, Mayor of your fucking city, stands for, he stands for the rule of law. Got it? Just because I can’t draw I don’t take out my frustrations  by vandalizing the city, that’s what a coward would do. That’s what you do. You’re a piece of trash.

I demand that you leave my city.

NOW!!!

Go to France where they play sissy football, sissy!