Witness
Deer gracefully bound through the tall grass riverbed, like gazelle jumping through the African bush, on their way to suck up the life giving cool milk flowing down from the powerful white shoulders of the mountain the Natives called, Tahoma, the breast of the earth. Sitting here now looking out at the same scene they loved like a mother, it's no wonder why.
It is one of those gloriously warm mid summer evenings beside the mighty Cowlitz River, which sustains this paradise on earth. She is alive above and below with fish jumping up to catch meals who’ve strayed too dangerously close to the fractured surface between worlds.
Occasionally the strong silver backs roll above the surface, as they struggle against the current making their way en mass back to the beds of their birth to give life to the next generation of strong silver backs. Those who have completed their journey lay on the river bottom, having spent their potency above, now nourish the next generation of little spawn who flip above the meaty carcasses of the those who have gone before. I am witness to this ancient dance that has gone on since long before we were here to witness it, and the mysterious forces that sustain it.
Every leaf on every swaying tree glows with a warm yellow aura making this seem like a scene from an unbelievably lucid dream. The gentle warm summer breeze lightly tickles my face and hair. I have found my piece of heaven on earth. Like Sidhartha, sitting under the Bodhi tree I hear the river making the same sound as the Ganges.
My loyal friend warms the feet of his master, perfectly content with his little legs tucked under the soft fur of his warm belly, eager to spring into action to bravely protect me from the next squirrel or rabbit or bird that ventures too close.
Even the flight of the mosquito delights me and seems in perfect harmony with the movement of the river, until he stops on my delicious knee, lightly browned by the summer sun, eager to suck a meal out of the red river running beneath my skin. I serve as his last supper. I am grateful for the gracefull Swallows diving, floating and bobbing in perfect arcs, catching the infernal mosquitos in mid flight, with perfect maneuvers that would be the envy of any pilot.
Orange and Yellow Monarch Butterflies seem to fly out of control until they deftly negotiate their way around tree limbs and bushes to land perfectly on the most vibrant purple flowers and lick up the succulent nectar of life, to sustain their vibrant colors.
A banal brown sparrow, no bigger than a pinecone, lands on the river bank below me and lets the loudest song erupt from his throbbing feathered chest, more melodic than any symphony. In the distance, accross the river his rival responds with an equally beautiful song. And the little sparrow quickly flies off in his endless pursuit of a suitor.
The Osprey glide powerfully down onto the river making barey a splash and without missing a beat, emerge with a silvery dripping fat wriggling meal to carry back to the next generation screaming in the gnarled top of the tallest gray Cedar.
A Great Blue Heron pulls up from his patient one legged hunting stance in the river uttering his objection with a bothered guttural croaking. His mighty wing span carries him low down the river. At first his graceful neck is extended out in front of him piercing the thick atmosphere that hangs above the river. Then as he gains command of the air in a steady flight down stream, he tucks his graceful ‘S’ curve neck against his powerful shoulders and continues effortlessly downstream, finally disappearing behind the veil of feathery fine fog floating softly above the river, glowing in the pinkish orange light of dusk.
As darkness falls, the gracefull flight of the swallows is replaced by stealthy flight of dark leather wings, who take over the pursuit of the pests who pursue me and needle me to move along, like the river and all the life it sustains.
