Ode 1: Union Pacific

(Revised 10.6.16)

 

In the alleyway

cool breezes sleeping chickens

under ancient trees.

 

I linger. It’s noon.

They say smoke still hangs over

the derailed oil train

 

in the Gorge but no

crude stains the Columbia.

Fortune smiled they say.

 

No wind-whipped flames fill

the space carved from the Cascades

by Ice-Age meltdowns.

 

Sighs in the tree tops

say signs. To be good this life

needs many virtues.