The Pacific-Northwest can't take too much rainfall:
the banks of the Skykomish River wash away,
washing pieces of life into the currents.
Nothing stays. Duskiness idles on
toward the comfort of another
sunrise, in the idea of forever—
Silence can dig you up, maybe,
make thoughts attach and reveal
what completes you, let some strength
rise from the soul within.
Or else the quietness removes
A portion of you. The Pacific- Northwest, too, has
a small voice, a coyote, calling at break of
dawn echoing through the mountainside,
the cottonwood's cotton balls are rising in unison with the wind.
And it's strange that in three days I now hold my soul clutched in a fist and hoping the rain stops.