Many times I’ve stood at the banks of the Columbia River with an eye of sorrow as vehicles rush by just past the ditch.
Deadwood at the shoreline, floating down-stream. Somedays the algae foams sickly about the edges.
Fish carcasses in the marsh, soggy, barely recognizable, bones and skin, teeth, the teeth always remain little spears to tear flesh from bone, bone-crushing devastation.
How many days I must have walked before standing so still in this spot. The racket of vehicles never-ending, zoom, zoom, zooming by and I stand ever still on the banks of the Columbia like a reed of silence, the death-dealing residue of lives, wood, and bone. There is no go-going from here, only life into death and back again, so simple, uncluttered, pure. The water is murky brown and at least twice a year warnings are posted that it's dangerous to swim in, flesh-eating bacteria to claim its victory, the underbelly pushing back.
I could never break through to you. Your firmament is murky brown, hazy, almost opaque, but I see your bones now, perhaps some skin, or is that river slime, and a tooth or two, dull from all the tender flesh you've devoured.
If you find yourself on the banks of the Columbia River with an eye of sorrow, maybe, just maybe, it will wash you clean.