Finally
Our drought is ending.
All day it has rained
In wind whipped squalls.
My beloved firs and cedars
Once loosed brown needles
But now hold new growth tight
As if grasping green raincoats
Against the storm.
While
Alders, vine maples, and cottonwoods
Let go of autumn
In golden wet showers of leaf
Turning pavements to
Painter’s drop cloths.
Thus winter begins
Here along the Salish Sea.
My heart begins to ache.
I mourn
Not just the loss of this autumn
But three decades of October,
Three decades of my life,
When
Like spawning salmon,
Every year we journeyed
Far and high from salt water
To the clear, sweet waters of Nason Creek,
A misnamed river
Rushing noisily down from these peaks
Named Cascade.
Again was the time of bears
Foraging for final meals
Before their long sleep.
Our old blue backpacking tent
Had traveled thousands of miles,
More than many people,
Certainly unlike all but the very few
Who have traveled by bicycle from
Anacortes to Bar Harbor.
She was a living thing
That tent,
My best friend.
I was happy to let her rest
Each fall
There beneath the pines
By river’s edge.
I could feel her joy of return.
I am old but oh how
I remember:
The swing of my axe,
Foraging for leaf, twig, cone,
The careful teepee build of fuel,
The evening’s first flames.
The sweet charred flesh of trout,
Potatoes cooked amongst the embers.
Sitting ‘round the fire
Drinking wine
Far into the night,
Tuning our little radio
To those far flung stations
One can only hear then.
As that mountain air grew
Sharp, clear, cold
We donned coats,
Added ever more wood,
Made the flames leap higher,
Scooted chairs closer
Where the mercurial fleeing smoke
Stung the eyes
Forcing one’s gaze upward
Into the infinity of blazing stars.
Regretfully we retired to
Down sleeping bags
Beneath a down comforter.
As the moon ever watched,
All but the river’s rapids
Came silent, came still
With the Fahrenheit plunge
Well below freezing.
Here the swift swoop
And strike of an owl
Edged my dreamless sleep.
Some years
Nights were not so cold.
We lay in rapture
In our little tent
As the night cracked open
With thunder,
As lightning lit us up like
X-rays.
Then came the deluge.
We marveled at remaining dry,
Grateful for the fine craftsmanship
Of our cozy gypsy home.
Most mornings
I emerged wearing layers
Beneath my old plaid coat,
Hands gloved.
I drew water,
Lit the propane stove,
Made French press coffee
Which we drank in chairs
On that river’s east bank,
Waiting out the slow rise of sun
Until the facing forest lit afire,
Until rapids sparked with light,
Until our backs were finally warmed.
All day it has rained.
I mourn.
I mourn.
Oct 25, 2025
Oct 25, 2025 at 2:36 PM UTC
Finally
Our drought is ending.
All day it has rained
In wind whipped squalls.
My beloved firs and cedars
Once loosed brown needles
But now hold new growth tight
As if grasping green raincoats
Against the storm.
While
Alders, vine maples, and cottonwoods
Let go of autumn
In golden wet showers of leaf
Turning pavements to
Painter’s drop cloths.
Thus winter begins
Here along the Salish Sea.
My heart begins to ache.
I mourn
Not just the loss of this autumn
But three decades of October,
Three decades of my life,
When
Like spawning salmon,
Every year we journeyed
Far and high from salt water
To the clear, sweet waters of Nason Creek,
A misnamed river
Rushing noisily down from these peaks
Named Cascade.
Again was the time of bears
Foraging for final meals
Before their long sleep.
Our old blue backpacking tent
Had traveled thousands of miles,
More than many people,
Certainly unlike all but the very few
Who have traveled by bicycle from
Anacortes to Bar Harbor.
She was a living thing
That tent,
My best friend.
I was happy to let her rest
Each fall
There beneath the pines
By river’s edge.
I could feel her joy of return.
I am old but oh how
I remember:
The swing of my axe,
Foraging for leaf, twig, cone,
The careful teepee build of fuel,
The evening’s first flames.
The sweet charred flesh of trout,
Potatoes cooked amongst the embers.
Sitting ‘round the fire
Drinking wine
Far into the night,
Tuning our little radio
To those far flung stations
One can only hear then.
As that mountain air grew
Sharp, clear, cold
We donned coats,
Added ever more wood,
Made the flames leap higher,
Scooted chairs closer
Where the mercurial fleeing smoke
Stung the eyes
Forcing one’s gaze upward
Into the infinity of blazing stars.
Regretfully we retired to
Down sleeping bags
Beneath a down comforter.
As the moon ever watched,
All but the river’s rapids
Came silent, came still
With the Fahrenheit plunge
Well below freezing.
Here the swift swoop
And strike of an owl
Edged my dreamless sleep.
Some years
Nights were not so cold.
We lay in rapture
In our little tent
As the night cracked open
With thunder,
As lightning lit us up like
X-rays.
Then came the deluge.
We marveled at remaining dry,
Grateful for the fine craftsmanship
Of our cozy gypsy home.
Most mornings
I emerged wearing layers
Beneath my old plaid coat,
Hands gloved.
I drew water,
Lit the propane stove,
Made French press coffee
Which we drank in chairs
On that river’s east bank,
Waiting out the slow rise of sun
Until the facing forest lit afire,
Until rapids sparked with light,
Until our backs were finally warmed.
All day it has rained.
I mourn.
I mourn.
Request permission to use this poem