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Up River On the Columbia
I've fished her shores.
stepped on her muddy reeds.
seen her blazing wild flowers.
she calm today
but a ship captain knows each year
she spits up bodies.
for centuries the natives settled her banks.
rode her inconstant waves.
died in her arms.
today birds circle.
I peel an orange.
this is desert country, bleak,
naked, dry, brown.
the heat can beat you flat.
nearby two Native Americans
fuss by an old truck.
one calls out "fresh caught salmon."
come evening
a train's sharp bells and horns
shout.
dialogues its journey with onlookers.
kills the quiet.
it's the first of many goodnight runs.
nearby a distant slope twinkles
with the lights of homes.
I hear ducks wrangle,
chatter in their own language.
a curious splash catches me,
then goes under.
shabby streets, clanky street cars,
overcrowded buildings,
warehouses, foul sounds and smells,
stuffed elevators and politicians
are out of sight, out of mind.
the simple, slow, naked, bucolic land
pours out a sweet song.
I lie on fresh grass.
the river's lush edge
holds the senseless litter
and raucous voices that I have collected,
that I want to let go of.
I see a crow. we stare.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
Mother Earth,
sharp, full of breath, can soothe,
charm, shake the backyard grease
in my soul.
the whole world belongs to me,
and of course, to the crow.
this is my furnished room for the night.
soon exotic stars will cover the sky.
this, the perfect place
to escape
the pickle jar of city life.
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