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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 deliver pain,
be rough, a blind beauty,
even beastly when a violent wind
spits up a body
from her cold currents.
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 sky has blockbuster eyes.
the sun stings when it seizes the senses.
I stretch. hear my own clear hoofs.
I see 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,
like picture postcard glitter.
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 an island of love.
I lie on the grass.
a crow stares.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
here Mother Earth opens her angelic heart.
becomes a potent pillow,
a sacred place to stars and life's venerable beauty.
I can confess all.
then
like fish I can graze the waves.
dive beyond what others think.
go as deep as I want
into the hot sauce that is me.
my own legend that is.
soon a sky full of exotic stars will appear.
this, the perfect place
to escape
the pickle jar of city life.
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