| The Siltcoos Estuary: snowy plover habitat |
| Wax Myrtle Campground Trail |
| 2003 Summer Solstice on the Siltcoos River at the Pacific Ocean |
Tsiltcoos
They say there’s no going back.
So, here I am,
returned, full grown of body now and
here I am,
finding what was hidden there then:
the sweetness of the close-to-decay smell of the sunken spots along
the riverbank;
more intense greens in the firs and ferns at the water’s edge than I
could count in a lifetime;
the slightly bracken, gray-green waters that move slowly towards
their ultimate source;
They say there’s no going back.
So, here I am,
returned, full grown of body now and
here I am,
finding what was hidden there then:
the sweetness of the close-to-decay smell of the sunken spots along
the riverbank;
more intense greens in the firs and ferns at the water’s edge than I
could count in a lifetime;
the slightly bracken, gray-green waters that move slowly towards
their ultimate source;
Tsiltcoos, you called my imagination to you.
Then, I brought tears of rage to you, bitter as the winter stars.
Then, I brought sharp strands and sticks of confusion,
snapping and breaking like a startled doe in the dense
undergrowth.
Then, the cacophony of voices was soul disconcerting, as
unsettled and distressed as the whelp without a teat.
Bird song,
fish jump,
fly buzz,
damselfly floating—
then, none of it could fully penetrate.
Lying on my belly on the warm planks of the dock,
watchful as bullheads, skippers and minnows moved through
in freedom,
as nature’s eternal show slowed, but did not stop those days of
dark stain.
Now, standing in those shadows of the past, they are seen for
what they are: unreal.
Now, what is real is the slurry movement of algae under the
fallen tree’s trunk at water’s edge.
Now, what is real is my heart, open at last to the deep waters in
it’s well, dark and beautiful.
Now, what is real is the blue of the sky holding me here on the
earth, where I am breathing in and out.
Remembering.
Then, I brought tears of rage to you, bitter as the winter stars.
Then, I brought sharp strands and sticks of confusion,
snapping and breaking like a startled doe in the dense
undergrowth.
Then, the cacophony of voices was soul disconcerting, as
unsettled and distressed as the whelp without a teat.
Bird song,
fish jump,
fly buzz,
damselfly floating—
then, none of it could fully penetrate.
Lying on my belly on the warm planks of the dock,
watchful as bullheads, skippers and minnows moved through
in freedom,
as nature’s eternal show slowed, but did not stop those days of
dark stain.
Now, standing in those shadows of the past, they are seen for
what they are: unreal.
Now, what is real is the slurry movement of algae under the
fallen tree’s trunk at water’s edge.
Now, what is real is my heart, open at last to the deep waters in
it’s well, dark and beautiful.
Now, what is real is the blue of the sky holding me here on the
earth, where I am breathing in and out.
Remembering.
Poetry inspired by a return to the region many years later...