The Long Reach of Novarupta, Katmai

Over the ash flow erosion state of recent history

Fall light leaves the ash filled valley intent to ascend all the great routes that now turn cold blown over by steady rain or ripping winds full of ash.

In this brief blink of life we stand at its edge look into its long reach life smothered by earth watch the light go summit ward disappear into sinking clouds the anxious hold of winter and our short, short history.

The coming end wraps my sleeve like a letter jacket stripe. Each withered friend’s death circles, cheers me on. I am stuck court-side at the game, only dreaming of a halftime show— long-legged girls kicking high, pert white pompoms bobbing in synch along the free-throw line.

It was Castaneda who called old age the last enemy of a person of knowledge. Transformed himself to afterthought when fake peyote stories revealed his existence to be a lie. I will never be able to shift shape— become wolf, puma, star player, crow. Smoke good stuff, dunk, dribble, drum. Leap off a cliff, survive.

Past tense need not be a sentence of loss. I must change my gaze, focus. Refuse to leave the court early, shower, watch game’s last moments, breathless, from a balcony grave.

How easy to love a pelt of trees. These Douglas firs cathedral me in sky-scraping green above Agnes Gorge.

How easy to amble in simile, the CCC suspension bridge knocked into stream like a dangling dream to rewild a ridge in the North Cascades back into Shangri La.

I’m first to glimpse the glacial white, the stage set waters we cannot ford trail checkmated by rapids, rock, we must retrace and hike out now.

My glance catches on crinkly arms, Doug’s lower branches emeriti retired mighty scaffolding now but a wing and bone show old angels crouched and cautionary keening round the living pole a sacrifice with no amen, and so the tree can canopy.

This much above all I recall. My husband would tell you about the bear.

M. Ann Reed