Underneath the bridge Old bricks Hold onto streets Unaffected by wind Weather fronts Rolling tires
We walk them as Train tracks slice through Gazing at high grass Growing between the mortar During a downpour of days And the cold slant of weeks
There are others there Tents, rigs, and schizophrenia Blue tarps & wagon carts Their bikes Ride rough Over the bricks
Waiting for trains to pass We still watch the grass Bent by the weight of seeds Swaying with the train’s draft Raindrops, faces, and reflections On Amtrak windows
Further up The streets throw away Their numbers Taking on names Of everyone in particular Where bricks give way To multi-layered pavement And rainwater moves easily Into green street planters
Frozen Lake Pamelia in early January 2025Mt. Jefferson poking its head up into the sun from the dark forested bowl of Lake Pamelia.Kitty footprints. There were a few tracks near the lake. That’s a big meow.
Into layers like thick frosting, dimming all senses.
Even creeks and the moving stars vanish.
I can lose myself within that space
Attempting to ease my own fierceness
For there is a respect that must be earned
And I’m still learning
With cautious, careful awareness of
My own fragile, sensitive soul
To reach a place upon her shoulders
Where she plays with mist
As if she is unwilling to tell secrets.
But I know it is only the rain and clouds
That seek her embrace, and once gone
Her poetry is lucid and unambiguous.
The eastern face of Mt.Hood on a warm October day. Not the side of Hood usually photographed. You can see the effects of climate change.Starting my trek, up I go into the mist.
When it’s raining is my favorite time to be in the wilderness. Things move during a rainstorm, taking the forest out of its stoicism. Replacing that stoic stance is a certain kind of majesty with the clouds flirting with trees and mountains.
Though I have yet to hear it, I know the small river will have a voice. It will have a voice childish in play, raw in wisdom, soothing in tone. I know this, for I have heard its voice many times.
I bring with me other voices. Our voices. The voices of how we once talked with one another.
These voices, the small river and us, will dart between the sound of current, ravens and hawks, the creaking of tall evergreens as their branches rub against each other. If you were going with me, I would have told you how baby hawks cry when their parents have gone hunting for them. But you don’t need to hear this and you won’t.
I’ve gone missing, right in front of you. I could have told you to never be in the forest when it’s snowing. Not even a small river can tell you the way back. And today, perhaps, I will not want to find my way back. ......But I will. I know this before I reach it.
For a short period of time, when I see the small river, I will no longer miss you, whoever you are, for I know your voice, but I do not know you and you do not know me. I have never felt the bones beneath your skin, the slight roughness of your lips. I have not smelled the scent of your favorite oil. I’ve never heard your song muffled between the walls of our house leaking out into the hallway.
I do know the small river will be strewn with boulders mixed in its current. There will be channels, and miniature rapids will have formed. Even these small rivers have different types of flows.
There will be an occasional chipmunk running into the brush, the distant echo of a bird. The wind will flirt with these sounds. Then, without warning, the wind will drown out all voices. Even those of my quiet steps in the snow where would-be tears make no imprint.
The Salmon River on a cold day. This was the closest I had ever come to a wild bald eagle, who was sitting on one of those branches next to the river. We startled one another as I was coming around a corner. Then, it opened up its huge wingspan and flew off into that sky you see above the river.
The east wind Driven by the river gorge Has no trouble in being found For it is the one searching for us In a scurry, frantic, indeterminate Then, in a moment of thought Directed, certain, content. Much like us.
The wind etches the river below it. An artist’s symmetry, capillary waves Hides the river’s speed Slowed by the dam above From rapids once free, where Many have sunk beneath Its undertows and swirls. Yet Branches, trees, and debris bob Appearing happy in its current. Death is the happy wader Within the sad body Who still desires to see the ocean Resurfacing upon drifts and beaches
Heading west, this wind Arrives at valley views To play with city & street Roaming around the deciduous Deciding to spread & sprawl out Over fields of strawberries and grapes Long past their harvest Knocking on our windows With the help of rain and sleet Peering at us with a shake and rattle While we hold our mixtures of Sweets & wine, love & despair Much like the wind holds fast onto the air.
November stilled. Air hangs like ether Carrying the distant sleepy Songs of circular saws Counterpoint of cars, and the Periodic rise of a child’s laughter.
This sound seeps Between definition and opaque Holding fast to forgotten fields Lost............In............Words Found in wind-frayed books of years Settled in greys and grasses Ruffled by the hum of eyes.
MoonCat 