Nisqually Delta

This morning, I woke early enough to see you disappearing around the corner of my dream. I felt your love flow over me, strong as a river's current. You’re here next to me in this liminal space, where river finds its journey’s end. I slow-walk the raspy gravel trail, worrying the gold band worn on a chain around my neck, look out over the marsh at a large patch of pickleweed, bright green just the other day, now stunning shades of purple and orange, always salty and tangy to the tongue. Soon, first frost will cover the ground with its white gauze, as autumn does that slow slide toward winter. I pull my soft sweater closer. The air carries the ghost of decaying matter. Further along, wetlands give way to forest. I pause to witness the sun peeking through reds, and oranges of bigleaf maples, brilliant yellow of cottonwoods. It happens every year, nevertheless a revelation, fall spreads out all around me, another country. A red-tail hawk startles flying so low I feel the rush of his wings. I still say, you can no more be gone than gravity or the moon.