startled by the fight
in a diseased and dying body
I sit over her
looking through fogged eyes
recalling a slice of heaven
on a little tributary
of the raging Santiam –
cheek high pasture weeds
brushes a five year old face
as I nearly tunnel after long tan legs
sunshine and pit bulls
a covey of quail and
the old ****** pelt drying plywood
cut in the shape of a giant stop sign
a bedded down doe crashes through an Oak thicket
as our adventure continues –
lazy afternoons of swimming in the creek
chasing tree frogs
and picking wild flowers
fill my pre pre-school memories
as I stare
and wait for her to take another breath –

the dawn breeze rises cool and soft
up from the golden ripples
of the Little North Santiam River.

past the sword ferns
yarrow
thimble berries
just ripening in late July.
through the fierce Himalayan blackberries
who need a trim.

over the cedar deck where we ate
grilled wild salmon and coleslaw
with our kids last night,
soaked in the softness
of our relaxed vacation bodies.

that silky air slides into our bedroom,
fills the space with the vigor
of a thousand spawning salmon.

our legs tightly entwined.
torsos pressed.
skin moist with sweat

these bodies fit together
even better
now with their
scars
sags
creaks.
proud flesh testifying
to grief and mileage.

teaching us our glorious human limits.
wisdom offered only through
life’s sharp blows and tears.

 
you open to me.
generous as always.
take me as I am.
with my vulnerable and volatile parts,
imperfect.
you welcome and entertain them all
as honored guests,
cherished.

we sink into the embrace.
merged for the moment.
the lists and logistics and decisions
dissolve.
and there is only us.

Walking the ruts on the Historic
Santiam Wagon Trail, I split
the stories of sky scraping
Douglas firs.  Alders and vine maple shed
their leafy weight of early Fall.

The brown state attraction sign boasts
a sincere Conestoga.   A sturdy team
in a purposeful westward arch.  What
benign heroic ambition.  Divine inevitability.

Small pox.
Wounded Knee.
Boarding schools.

I wonder how the sign sits in the eyes
of a Kalapooya walking these woods.  Or
a Nez Perce or Siletz?

Like a ******* in Tel Aviv?  A machete
in Kigali?

But the Siletz don’t have an air force
or UN peace keeping troops.