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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years.
faced her rain.
rested at her mouth.
but a ship captain knows
she can heat a person's passion and pain,
but be rough, a blind beauty,
even beastly when a violent wind
spits up a body from her cold currents
onto her ancient shores.
for centuries the natives fed off of her.
salmon ran so flush it was like charity.
the natives gathered with the gulls, danced,
and rode her inconstant waves.
today birds circle.
the heat beats down.
I peel an orange.
all around dry brown slopes cut the horizon.
this is desert country.
the deep blue sky is at peace,
pulling for the same tomorrow.
but the sun seizes the senses.
death thirsts in this parched air.
I stretch, ponder, hear my blues,
see my movie, my gracious caresses,
my own clear hoofs.
this, a place to reflect.
nearby two Native Americans
fuss by an old truck.
one calls out "fresh caught salmon."
evening falls.
a train labors the shoreline.
its iron wheels burn away the quiet.
it's the first of many goodnight runs.
on a slope homes flicker like little pearls,
picture postcard glitter,
a gentle trembling in twilight.
I hear ducks wrangle,
chatter in their own language.
a curious splash catches me,
then goes under.
here I am far from the penalties of city life,
those steamy streets, glut of busy shops,
shabby hotels, booming distractions,
and bastions of derricks.
the river summons like a fabled
cry to a love island.
I lie on the grass.
a crow and I stare.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
here Mother Earth opens her heart.
she's naked, gracious,
inhabits each droplet of my blood.
she becomes a potent pillow,
a soft shoe, a magical kiss,
even a firedog.
I sit beneath stars.
I am nameless, insubstantial.
I confess all
then like fish I graze the waves.
tease myself.
go as deep as I want
into my neglected dreams,
my movie, the blood that is me.
I am my own legend.
soon a whole sky of exotic stars will appear.
this, the perfect place
to escape
the pickle jar of city life.
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