For the Poet of Pablo Creek
Long legs loping through alder woods,
beard a black bush, pack on your
back, twinkle in your eye
like the twinkle of a creek in the sun.
In your cabin by lamplight,
you trace a trail or mountain
range on the maps you cherish
more than any original painting,
You're an old wall-gazer,
The only time I even faintly
tasted the wrath you reserve
for the Forest-Service-Timber
Company Consortium, Trident
and Northern Tier
was brushing trail up the Queets
for two dollars a day,
when the chainsaw gas was leaking
on your new, expensive sleeping bag;
and maybe the time Balaam, our donkey,
ate the last of our cedar shelter
during a rainstorm on the Calawah River,
back when we were still calling
winter wren the jazz bird.
You know the alchemy of song
and the heart required.
Here...I've set you out
a cup of fresh rice tea
and the only map of the 36
waterfalls of Canyon Creek.
Mike O'Connor | Wei City Song
Contents | Mudlark No. 7