The Age of Cities by Brett Josef Grubisic

it’s level with the water and the water is leading toward the sea, I always imagine this place before we were here.” Having lost the contest of wills, Winston had already placed the book on his coat.
    â€œThe Wilson dynasty? Or are you referring to the time before Cook and Vancouver and grubby gold rush miners?”
    â€œI mean when animals ruled the world. Nobody else. Well before the age of cities. It’s something of a mix-up because a few mammoths are roaming as well as some dinosaurs—I have a peculiar fondness for the brontosaurus, so always throw in a few. No people, though, not a soul. It all seems majestic…” She stood up to get a better view of the scene outside the window. “…and awesome.”
    â€œSo much poetry and so early in the day, Mother.” He understood Alberta’s point but did not feel it. “I’d rather see a painting of it, something by Emily Carr maybe. In an art museum. Anyway, Oscar Wilde said that art is an improvement on nature. If I were stranded beside you in your prehistoric wonderland, I’d be looking for the nearest exit out. There’s something about wide-open spaces swarming with reptiles that has me craving art and craft—central heating, a cozy armchair, and a good novel.”
    â€œOh, you. Small wonder we never go camping. Biscuit?” She reached into her embroidery bag and began to unfold a waxed paper parcel. Their car rolled by vibrant stands of salmonberry and cottonwood.
    Winston decided that it was Alberta’s enthusiasm at leaving the Bend that had been the catalyst for her impromptu lecture about life before apes and civilization. It was a romantic, noble-savage diorama she drew for him, but minus even the savage. Truly, she had painted a big primitive pastureland, one with far more grazers than predators. Edenic—for a cud-chewer.
    â€œAnd how do you imagine surviving in this place, Mother?” He tried out her idea; removing the links of log booms from the river, he imagined something like an Ogopogo heaving its sleek eel’s head out of the muddy current.
    â€œThat’s not the point. It’s a bit like visiting a ranch. Only I am invisible—or at least nothing spots me—and just watch them peacefully go about their business. Lovely.”
    â€œLonely, I’d say. And anyway there’s no intelligence there, Mother. Animal instinct only! And that means there is no culture. It’s all packs, flocks or prides, and being led around by some elemental pulsations: go forth and multiply. Eating, sleeping, mating until they’re feeble and then melt back into the earth.” Winston was intrigued by her creation. His need to respond was habit rather than dismay.
    â€œPorter.” Alberta spoke out over her son’s head and raised her hand to wave. Winston watched her silver bangles slide up her forearm. An elderly man, stooped and turtle-paced, made his way toward her. “How long will it be before we arrive?” He checked his pocket watch, and was sure to explain that his answer was “an approximation.” Winston pictured a troupe of porters in a train station office being given a pep talk by their higher ups, explaining how they must use that phrase so that nobody could complain if the train was running late.
    He returned to his station at the end of the car after asking, “Is that everything, Madame?” Alberta was triumphant: “You see! He answered me because he sensed that I am higher than he is in the pack and should be obeyed. There was no intelligence there, just instinct. Ha. That’s your civilization. It’s nothing except that, but it dresses itself up, puts on airs. La-dee-da.” She made the hand gestures of a fine lady lifting her skirts to take a step.
    Alberta turned to look at the porter—now unmoving, statuary hands resting on the countertop. She said, “Speaking of which … I believe that man ought to