Written beside the Deschutes River in May
In a dream I am not at home on North Montana Avenue but instead in the Deschutes River Canyon, under the shade of cottonwood trees. The sky can’t decide what sort of day it is going to be and so it is constantly changing clothes. A new shirt here, different pants there.
...Fields of lavender lupines and bouquets of wild sun flowers
...I watched a magpie flying low over new crops then rise up to perch on the branch of a pine that was standing alone
...the swallows dance above the river as if they were angelic trapeze artists hanging from spider web ropes tied to the clouds
...the canyon walls resonate excitement as every living being knows the smell of steelhead pheromones sweet like bees wax means that the river veins have brought a banquet of Life back for the Earth to feast on.
...In the background the day whispers in the leaves in and out of the river’s dull ovation
...Alone is a dear friend I haven’t seen in years and it feels uncomfortable and a little sad how we’ve nearly become strangers we’ve lost each other’s dialect and struggle to learn it again
...Mourning Dove, your song never gets old! Play it again, the lyrics remind me of loved ones who have left
...I wish I could paint the honeycomb air and match the shades of green new sages and the shoreline trees and the redwing blackbird scattered sparse solos so much soul
...In this dream I can feel every emotion all at once, like a bright white light. In a prism I separate the colors in order to put them all back in their place in the box, all reds together, all yellows together, etc.
...The sky asks which we like better, the grey sweater or the shirt. I say ‘the red and blue plaid’ and the sky just laughs and laughs so hard tears come with huge gasps for air. I guess the red and blue plaid was the obvious answer to choose...
...Just to extend the joke, both the sweater and the shirt are torn in two and the two halves are sewn together and now me and the sky are matching, both half in and half out. More laughter.
...This is the direction to sit and watch the clouds roll in from the West. This morning the sky was grey felt, wet in places, universal. This afternoon they are soft clouds of medium size in unique shapes, the sort you can watch for hours from a blanket in the grass, imagining pictographs of unlimited possibilities. They are like floats in a sky parade. A dancing elephant has just come over the cliffs.
...the sky finally dons an old raggedy grey sweater from a punk house free box now, and again now, big gaping holes where threads have given way, the blue and golden t shirt show through at times brilliant.
...waking life comes knocking but I don’t have the time right now and so it tries to yell through the window. I watch lips move for a moment but I can’t hear a thing with the river babble and the leaf mutter. I allow myself to be hypnotized by their chanting, Waving sage bows at me they take me back to my private dream.
...The sun whispers quietly as the wind runs its fingers through my hair.
...I scan the ledges of the rock walls hoping I will see a wild sheep high on the edge just a step away from the Eternal. I imagine that it would appear to me like an apostle, bearing gifts of a sacred knowledge reserved only for those who wait with time and patience.
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