Smoky Mountains

My time in the Cascade Mountains is almost over.  Tomorrow morning I leave for home.  Fires burn on all sides; air smells of smoke, visibility less than a mile.  Each day I have found places to escape; now smoke seems everywhere.  I leave you with a few pictures and notes from the last few days. 

Lillian Falls, deep in the Waldo Lake Wilderness and seldom visited, its mossy sides clothed in green moss. 

an old log in green velvet

climbs up the middle

defying the roar

she follows at his waist

adopting his garb

would not be there otherwise   

Lone jeep on a forest road

far from help

she’s forgotten where

and when

but not the trees

the little bird

that didn’t fly away    

Not a fire, but a sunbeam

pinhole in foliage far behind

lights upon a rotting tree

guides to where she’s going

and tries to understand  

these smoky mountains

march away

each rank  less distinct

until the last is hazy memory  

I remember Marilyn Lake

winter six years ago 

when I was young

future shrouded in snow

colors under white

hard yet pliable

imaginable

but not like this