C.M. Rivers
Now Flowing ~ Contemplative Essays ~ Poetry ~ Memoir
Olympic Mountains
Jagged white peaks rose, totems of winter: Earth’s Master Carver.
I was merely an apprentice spoken to in passing, on one of those Seattle days when darkness comes at 4:30 in the afternoon and mantles your whole life.
I listened to Van Morrison’s T.B. Sheets as I trundled along the pier, just up from where the cruise ships dock when they pass through Elliott Bay, tourists de-boarding only long enough to get coffee and smoked salmon, see the Needle and the Market, through the sad tourist lenses of not knowing.
The wind cut into me like a halibut’s teeth, oysters moped in brackish sludge, aquatic hermaphrodites fascinated with themselves.
The mountains and I fell for each other, both of us northerners by birth. Both wreathed in mist, starved for sun.
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“Who has not felt the urge to throw a loaf of bread and a pound of tea in an old sack and jump over the back fence.” John Muir
I was just at the coast!!! forks!
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