Written at Mosier Creek falls (Pocket Creek park) for Writing Up the Gorge exhibit at Columbia Center for the Arts

 

 

The bunny in grey, invisible at dusk.

Bouncing, bounding,

kicking up his heels, patching out.

He’s the newest quail family member.

Two dozen puffed-out bodies on spindly little legs moving in synchronicity in the yard.

Flitting and cooing

waves on the river of dirt - back and forth, like the tide

as they rustle for seeds and

play in the moonlight,

homesteading my yard.

Grey feral bunny, at home with his covey of quail.

 

They haven’t noticed my car inching up.

But then, oh no, a human!!! Quail chaos! Fly and flee!

Blood orange moon,

blazing through wildfire smoke,

hangs with his sky-blue friend,

the historic farmhouse.

Both, standing guard over quail and friends

before Mosier was Mosier.

 

Just down the street,

the flaxen glow of sunset.

Ancient, arthritic oaks

reach down with gnarled limbs

that sag and sway,

dusting the trail.

Disappear around the bend…

into the overwhelming baritone

undertone                 

of distant wind in trees.

Freeway noise fades into silence of thoughts

and secret spots.

The dachshund is restless,

his quivering nose explodes with adventure.

Wispy, whispering trails

call him to gallop;

while I sluggishly meander.

Just close your eyes.

And breath.    

And be.                                                                   

 

A single, sudden, shattering sound overhead -          

red tailed hawk.

Old beat-up farm Ford rumbles the distance.

Yellow ochre

dry-brushed onto red dirt hills.

Gold and brown, rust and orange.

The Mosier menopause.     

The end of summer.

 

Dusty path rattles with

dried wildflower bouquets

that sway over that place where

the Mosier’s lie

alongside the Husky’s,

old oaks,

and other forefathers.

Pioneer cemetery.

Melting headstones, rounded by rain since 1870

Lichen-scarred

Like the cliffs

Like freckles on old backs.

A bend of the trail and

craggy cliffs, 

steep drop offs.

Vertical piers of fossilized stone.

Plunging Gorge granite

where sharp winds blow

and eagles soar

eye to eye with you.

Watch your step here

or you’ll be laid here to rest with Mosier pioneers.                         

Rushing stream.

Splash and splatter

shatters

the stillness at your feet.

The waterfall percussion

the soprano staccato

the groundswell of sounds       

from one to many.

Hypnotic aquatic symphony.

Mosier Creek falls.

Sparkly water draws you in -

take the plunge

into the abyss.

into deep, clear, ebony.

Big brown dog plunges into the mellow creek above the waterfall.

Dachshund wades in, fishing for sticks. 

And I remember camping with dogs and kids

and secret hikes like this.

And here I am - half a century later.

Thank God, nature hasn’t changed much.

How many of us

dipped into life – this glistening pool - this wishing well?

Take the plunge here - it lasts a lifetime.

 

Waterfall dwindles to a ribbon by summer

but I have stood here, swallowed by the roar of spring

when thousands of gallons of snow and rain overwhelmed this vertical chasm.

 

Long green reeds and fall colored leaves

cling to the edges of a pond

right behind the plunge.

The quiet place,

calm before waterfall’s storm.

Ripples that chase each other in cross-hatch patterns,

change their mind and direction

and dream of becoming grown-up waves along

once-swollen banks.

Sparkly watercolor flash light paintings.

Little girl lace, spiral ribbons, hypnotic patterns.

Branches dip and recede in the breeze.

Wind stops, and the art show with it.

Smell of the creek.

Fresh. Sharp. Earthy overtones. With a long, smooth finish.

Tangle of deadwood and decaying leaves and

splotched tree branches –

some, round and smooth,

some, rough like elephant skin and

some, with birchy, flaky freckles

dangling over ponds like postcards.

 

Is that mangled, tangled mound of wood chaos

the gnome home of our neighbor beaver? 

 

I want to slip down shiny black rocks

and fall head first into that sparkly pool of light

and forget all the changes that robbed my father of his memory

of such moments as these;

shared in the wilderness

when life would last forever and

day turned into night and

there was not a hint of falling apart in old age,

like crackly brown leaves.

 

 

 

Those leaves are rattling down already,

it’s not even Labor Day, and they’ve already given up.

Discarded.

With their decomposing branch friends.

Huddled together.

Clinging to cliffs - the improbable, brave stand off.

Holding back water

and time

before that life-changing ebony plunge

from this moment

to the

waterfall in between.