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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years.
her calm beauty has a balmy personage,
though I've watched her froth,
roll bittersweet past homes,
skin the land,
sweep away streets,
freakish, fast, and unforgiving.
her soliloquy includes
the native's story of collapse,
vacant villages,
fortunes found and lost,
and bloody weepings.
today birds circle.
the heat beats down.
I peel an orange.
this is the desert country.
my neck is hot.
the heat has its own scent.
I'm drawn here to reflect,
find bit of peace.
empty myself.
I gaze at two Native Americans
who fuss by an old truck.
one calls out "fresh caught salmon."
evening falls,
a train swaggers along the shore.
its iron wheels squeak
like the cries of bruised animal.
to me it looks like a tapeworm.
it's the first of many goodnight runs.
nearby homes on a slope
flicker like little pearls,
like mother earth's jewels
seeking attention.
strange in this barren place.
I hear ducks wrangle.
chatter in their own language.
a curious splash catches me,
then goes under.
the cries, screeching streets,
the mad money, the glut of quests,
busy shops, dive bars, hotels, and derricks,
here I am far from the penalties of city life,
away from the tied up dogs,
skyscrapers and vacant lots.
the soft earth beneath my feet
is like a new waterline.
a place of drainage for a life full of angst.
it's the same earth you find
most anywhere but here by this river
it's not at war. it's not full of dead fish
or fast driving cars.
the river's contours pose,
give a soft nudge,
shaped with purpose and sacrifice.
a crow and I stare.
he grabs his grub and flies off.
here I am me.
the crazy, foolish, comedic goofball,
with the true version of myself,
paper light spreading out my arms.
handcuffs gone, I can
ripple with the waves, crouch
in its air,
leap, flex or whatever.
or like a fish I can swim deep,
find the wild in me
while I untangle the bowl in my belly.
or lay like a tranquil flower
and see a sky full of exotic stars.
this, the perfect place
to escape the pickle jar of city life.
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