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Up River On the Columbia
I've followed her for years,
her ancient walls, her desert rings,
her sinuous mountain passages.
I've fished her shores.
seen her in violent rage.
lounged at her mouth.
but a ship captain knows a trail of tears.
she can be claws, untimely rough,
a blind beauty,
when she spits
a body up from her cold currents.
for centuries the natives fed off of her.
played upon her banks.
told magical stories about her wealth,
then gathered with the gulls,
and rode her inconstant waves.
today birds circle.
the heat beats down.
I'm here, alone,
taking shelter in her windy eyes.
I peel an orange.
sit and wander into a 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 crack the quiet,
line the water's edge.
it's the first of many goodnight runs.
on a distant slope homes flicker like little pearls,
golden jewels, 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 cries, horns, hotels,
lavish shops, loud busses,
hustlers and bastions of derricks.
I lie on the grass.
feel the cool ground.
my vigor rises.
beauty peers. I rest.
a crow and I stare.
he grabs his grub. flies off.
Mother Earth, her head, arms, shouting voice,
satisfy and crowns all.
she a song and a poet herself.
we sing together. the volcanic rock speaks.
her muscles go sky high
and like the fish,
I can go as deep as I want
into a 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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