The Narrative Image

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 ...

I helped Mr. and Mrs. P move some furniture to a beach house in Lincoln City .  On the morning we were to load the truck, menacing rain clouds demonstrated their ability to saturate the earth at will with intimidating bursts of precipitation. Not to be nonplussed, Mr. P, who seemingly has the right tool for the right job (no matter how obscure) demonstrated his determination to beat the clouds by pulling a tarp out of his shed that, in its folded state, was just a little bit bigger and heavier than all the furniture we had to move, and unfolded, well... let's just say that standing on opposite ends, we couldn't hear each other over the vast distance unless we used walkie-talkies (and even then we had to gesticulate wildly like near-sighted monkeys).  Once the huge tarp was deployed, the rain clouds moved on to easier prey. In fact, it wouldn't rain again for the duration of the task. A picture of the coast just South of Lincoln City which doesn't really illus...

I set out for The Dalles last Saturday to track down some more examples of native American rock art (I'd been given a few leads - thanks Mr. Colman), but driving east on I-84, I didn't fail to notice that the Columbia River was as smooth as glass all the way from Portland to Biggs Junction and probably beyond. This phenomenon was not entirely unexpected (witness the kayak strapped to my vehicle). The miraculous conditions persisted as I sped up the gorge. By the time I passed Celilo Village , my plans to correlate GPS coordinates with actual physical locations were mostly forgotten. The brilliant blue water was calling to me like early morning flat water calls to water-skiers.  Note to literalists: When I say the water was calling to me, I'm employing a metaphorical device and by no means am I suggesting that water can actually talk. Even my brother Fred would have a hard time managing to capsize in this. Some months ago, wildfire danced impulsively ...