Today I live less than a five-minute walk to an eight-lane freeway,
and when I leave the house, I imagine an ocean—waves
crashing close, then washing back over a broad gravel beach.
When I reach the pedestrian overpass, my deception is overcome
by a sea of single-occupant cars and trucks competing for time
and small forgettable victories. A loneliness of freeways.
A forest of polyvinyl cages, understory of rubber and alloy, all
bathed in burnt gas—venomous photosynthesis—blaring speed,
contrails of asphalt, bands of pavement like blind pythons
winding over the humiliated foothills.
When I walk the same distance in the other direction, I drop down
a wooded bank of buffaloberry and red-osier dogwood, trembling aspen
and balsam poplar, an occasional white spruce. Flash sightings of flickers.
Songs of chickadees. Everlasting magpies and scavenging crows.
Snagged on a prickly rose, a tuft of fur tells of a red-tailed hawk.
At the coulee’s nadir, a creek with miniature waterfalls, still falling,
still running in late August. A cure for souls.
The root-studded path leads to a hillside meadow of yarrow,
a tunic of arnica, wild blue aster, subalpine fleabane, and harebell.
Fireweed stands among inveterate goat’s beard, a neutrality of shrubby
cinquefoil, and a solemnity of honeysuckle and service berry.
Stopping at the creek, where things speak of solitude, I gaze
myself into a trance. When I emerge, as I must, I pray,
in my own distrait way, that—Earth may [yet] outwit
the huge stupidity of its humans.*
“Surely our task
was to have been
to love the earth,
to dress and keep it like Eden’s garden.” -Denise Levertov
* line from Denise Levertov’s poem, Almost-Island
You should move house to the other side of the creek
Yes. And then I think, this is exactly where I’m meant to be.
Perfect
I pray the same prayer daily. Humanity has lost its way.
Thank you, Corinne. We pray together.
Such a felt relief when you “walk the same distance the other way.” I feel on edge so often as things have escalated here in the States, once again. Seeing the scene in my mind that you were seeing with your eyes is a gift. Tears of gratitude that there are still these spaces well up as the beauty you walked through seeps into me. Thank you, Stephen.
Bless you, Ann. Thank you for feeling your way through these scenes.
Gorgeous.
As always.
And I’m always grateful, Laurie, for your encouragement, especially as I esteem your own work, your paintings, your poetry.
Thank you, Stephen, for the beautiful writing.
I too feel deep sorrow seeing the distraction and the indifference of so many.
And yes, the beauty as well.
Thank you, Slavka. Your response means a lot to me!
Powerful descriptions of both sides of the creek.
Wanted to join in the prayer about “the earth and the stupidity of its humans” and realized I’m in that category and a full participant in that stupidity.
Thanks, Sam! You and me both.
Ever thankful for the other
direction
as well,
for the eyes and the heart
of you, my friend
<3 -^-
Thank you, Tamara. I’m always grateful for your encouraging responses.
Marvelously, almost distressingly descriptive. I’m grateful for beautiful haunts “in the other direction” that still exist, some of which we’ve shared!
Thank you, my friend. Grateful here as well. Moreso for the ones we’ve shared.