Sunny Nights

East of elsewhere and North a couple miles, red-winged blackbirds watch the wind and eye me with suspicion. Sparrows flit between signposts and low branches. The sun beckons and rarely lets up. Life is in full swing. Fields of seeds, sprouts, shrubs, trees and others lying fallow, the miles of wire fence and rumors of dead ends, they add up.

I picked up some work. A little bit of gardening, some grass mowing, a healthy side of Sheetrock installation. Locals lending me a hand, offering a place to pitch a tent, lining up connections and offering directions. With a generous dose of writers block, this itinerant poet settles down for a few days.

Another heatwave approaches. When dawn appears around 5:00 AM, I’m there to greet her. The highway steady rumbles. The birdsong offers a murmuring crescendo between puffs of wind. In dappled light, I follow streets and county roads. State parks offer bike paths along the late Spring rambling rivers. Portland sits pretty in the setting sun.

But what lies in Portland lies South as well. Cries for help and lawless banter. Black Lives Matter signs in every office, coffee shop, and neighborhood window, but proof on every corner that no life matters. Potholes are paved, trash cans are painted and murals adorn every aging wall. Oh it’s a pretty city indeed. Just not for the living.

So many people so far gone there is no simple solution. A system we have no idea how to use, kickstart, or get moving in any direction. A society amidst the spiraling cacophony of a chant, excitedly repeating the word filibuster. Where do we start?

I suppose we start with kindness. We’ll also need a multigenerational exercise in the seven stages of grief. Before I change the world though, I’ll start a little smaller. Today, I paused in a public garden. Nestled between lily pads and blooming Iris, I closed my eyes and focused on my breath. Such a small beginning and yet a mere five hours later, as I labored up a hill, I noticed how focused my breathing was. Entirely in conjunction with each pump of the legs.

My outpouring began this morning at the river. I offered humble prayers and witnessed poetry carved in stone. The ride was simple, quick, and enticing. The energy of movement has returned and I eagerly await the coming days. But what’s more, I find myself in an RV camp. The sun tumbles behind the distant hills; Venus and Mars saunter across the sky as the first quarter lies in chase; and as I shiver in the dark, a voice from across the way offers a seat by the fire.

And so my time in Oregon comes to a close. I eat dinner by a fire, surrounded by new friends and joyous conversation. My toes are warm, my heart as well, and somehow, my belly is full. It’s a Saturday, but just so, the plan is in full swing—I watch the embers dissipate, clamber into my tent, and thank the powers at be for a perfect Thursday night.