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.


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