Back to Goose Lake, this time beneath a rapidly developing snow sky, with an early morning view of the Cascades: Mt. Hood and Mt. Jefferson are sharply defined and the entire range is aglow. Thirty-four degrees. Hawks, flickers, towhees, and talkative wrens; an eruption of ducks; near the old cottonwood, a picnic table that has absorbed so much moisture it looks like it will soon be growing again. Goose Lake is more than the water it contains and its mucky, irregular rim; it’s the scented atmosphere in the surrounding quarter-mile, sickening and sweet with life and decay, like an old uncle redolent with pipe smoke, potatoes, gravy, and sardines, and the powdered old aunt who doesn’t quite know what to do with him, but loves him all the same.
May each conclusion I reach be a momentary resting place, not a prison that bears my name.
January 26, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces