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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years.
loved her clouds and rain,
her dirty talk and sharp rocks.
I've slept on her shore
but a ship captain knows
she can deliver pain,
be rough, a blind beauty,
even a beastly trap when a violent wind
spits up a body from her cold currents.
for centuries the natives caught her fish.
gathered with the gulls, danced,
rode her inconstant waves
as they knifed through the current.
today birds circle.
the heat beats down.
I peel an orange.
dry brown slopes surround me.
this is desert country.
here thirsty voices and a bare wind
make a solemn cry
as bright as your blood
one might look for love, say love,
want love, but the sun is pitiless,
seizes the senses,
is a thud upon one's lips.
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 swaggers the shoreline.
its iron wheels move it headstrong
like a long chugging lizard, suckling,
on the hunt. it breaks the soothing quiet.
is the first of many goodnight runs.
on a slope homes flicker like little pearls.
packed tight they are the night lights,
the 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,
the steamy streets, glut of busy shops,
fake stories, shabby hotels,
meaningless distractions,
and rattling derricks.
the river summons with its beloved
fresh air and an unaccountable
scale of decency and sweetness.
I lie on the grass.
a crow stares.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
Mother Earth's angelic heart
surrounds me.
even with the heat and hard sky
she's good fire.
she's my companion.
like a fish I can graze the waves.
fall into the faint glows.
go as deep as I want.
I plunge upon my own small world
and seek my natural
self.
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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