My Roots

Great grey clouds allow a single, slender white finger to carress the river which reflects the blank expanse with unyielding acceptance, recieves the gentle touch with open eyed grace; the valley forest pauses a moment, shyly turns eyes to corners and gives unbroken gaze and inward sigh as the cloud kisses the water. In their sleepy hours the river and forest are sister and brother, firefly night lights casting glow over the valley as they lay awake, huddled close to one another, listening to the transistor radio static of cicadas, sometimes picking up the song of owls or frogs, presently tuned to the howling of wolves, ears pricked for the cry of bats. Snuggled close, brother forest feels an emptiness fade into the sky, a longing resolved into purpose - where the grass and lillies touch is the warm center of all things. Each waning light, each inevitable morning, forest forgets to kiss her and spends the day stoic, full of regret. On the day cloud and river kissed, the earth quaked as forest cried and he crumbled into his sister's loving arms. And then there was no river. And then there was no forest. And the clouds departed to let the light in.

- Outside of Portland