Morceau Mists

Image borrowed from Bing

Morceau Mists

I rose in the half light this morning,
before the sun had climbed
over the burly shoulders
of the foothills I live beside,
and put on my tall leather boots,
and my insulated levi shirt
and beat it along the Orting highway
to my favorite turn off,
adjacent to the country store
in Alderton, and slipped quietly
east to the bridge straddling a bend
in the muddy Puyallup, running fast
and high after the torrential rains
of yesterday.

Grabbing my old wooden cane,
locking my vehicle, I moved quickly
toward my first view of the river,
under the edge of the concrete bridge,
and it sang out hello loudly
with its vibrant voice, sounding
like a tabernacle choir hundreds
strong, good morning, you are just
in time to greet the sun.

I walked slowly, trudging through
ankle-deep piles of castaway leaves,
clustering around my legs like
golden orange koi, fecund wet hordes
of dewey cover on the twisting access road,
soaking my cuffs and laces; walking in
deep tree shadow I was surprised
by how much more of the river I could see
this week, for many of the trees along
its bank stood nearly naked now,
naked and unashamed, assuming their
slim and spindly guise, their winter look.

The air was filled with crow caws
and goose squawks and sea gull cries
as the sun crested the hills before me,
bathing my walk in white brilliance,
and my lips warmed with its
solar embrace, its morning kiss.

Turning my back away from its intensity,
I saw that my own shadow had grown
to over 15 feet, stretching out west
bending lovingly over every furrow
and fence post.

I was surrounded by mists rising
off the river, off puddles, off the dew,
off the slick bark of the scantily-clad
maples and alder, joining in the air
with my own breath, mingling, hanging
low over me, like the frenzied beating
of angelic wings, a brotherhood of fog,
being eradicated by radiation
as quickly as it was born.

Glenn Buttkus November 2010

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