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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years.
faced her rain, seen her monster high,
her massive torrents lashing the land.
I've rested at her mouth,
laughed, danced, and fished her shores,
even basted in her hot breezes.
but a ship captain knows a trail of tears.
she can be rough, a blind beauty,
a terror when she spits
a body up from her cold currents.
for centuries the natives fed off of her.
gathered with the gulls,
and rode her inconstant waves.
salmon ran like charity.
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.
it 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, car horns, hotels,
busy shops, drum beats,
restaurant lines, and bastions of derricks.
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
bastion of beautiful things,
a potent pillow,
her lovely jaws run with the waves.
we sing together.
her muscles go sky high
and 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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