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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years.
faced her rain, her massive torrents.
I've rested at her mouth,
fished her shores,
tasted her beach breeze.
her gleam, splendor digs at my heart
when I stand at her gate.
but a ship captain knows a trail of tears.
she can be rough, a blind beauty,
a death song when she spits
a body up from her cold currents.
for centuries the natives fed off of her.
salmon ran like charity.
natives gathered with the gulls,
danced and rode her inconstant waves.
today birds circle.
the heat beats down.
I peel an orange.
take time to sit and dream.
all around dry brown slopes cut the horizon.
this is desert country.
the sun seizes the senses.
nearby two Native Americans
fuss by an old truck.
one calls out "fresh caught salmon."
evening falls.
a train's iron wheels burn away the quiet.
its scuffs the air.
it's the first of many goodnight runs.
on a distant slope homes flicker like little pearls,
like a lake in a mirage,
painted picture perfect.
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,
the street hustlers, carts, hotels,
busy shops, nighttime drum beats,
fancy restaurants, and bastions of derricks.
here I lie on the grass.
feel my vigor.
my soul glows.
a crow and I stare.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
Mother Earth opens her heart.
she stands as a grandiose promise of beautiful things.
she's a potent pillow,
with lovely jaws and strange sounds.
I graze the waves.
like a fish I can go as deep as I want
into the world that is all me.
soon a exotic stars will cover the sky.
this, the perfect place
to escape
the pickle jar of city life.
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