The Narrative Image

The lodge at Multnomah Falls is open again — and that’s not fake news. But the lodge is about all that’s open. The route to the first viewpoint is screened off with a section of chain-link fence. This is the best shot I could get holding my camera up over my head to clear the fence. You can see the railing of the distant observation area in the lower right corner. Even as I stood behind the barrier, workers brought more fence to make sure that certain ‘gray areas’ of access were no longer open to interpretation. The wind was hurtling westward down the gorge, and plastic chairs that may have earlier welcomed winter tourists’ butts were now stacked in compact piles, perhaps to avoid the prospect of flying furniture. Tree limbs combed the sky for litter nits. Already, it’s hard to be certain if one is looking at fire damage, or autumn’s annual tree stripping. It’s so windy that some waterfalls stop falling. The iridescent she

A thin, icy, cloud painted crystals overnight onto chilly windshields Till the morning’s faux summer-sun chased it into low places Winter’s premature apparition melts in gullies, carved across sloping fields Behold a golden diamond set in a blue dome of sky, quiet and still as if in permanent stasis Until Winter’s specter fingers stretch forth, over brittle, golden-fields shivering Birds bail out of the sky, as if some great dangerous tide is turning I stand atop a deep cut scar, a canyon, a river’s ceaseless dithering Gusting winds kick up a haze though no fire is left burning This bird’s eye view reveals my path through history, those days of triple digits The river, flashing cold blue grins, teases saying, “I still got your (pretty-good) fishing pole” It seems unlikely that a river’s fits and starts, its endless fidgets Would craft such nonsensical wondrous scenes — absent any goal