Thursday, January 20, 2011

Adrift

Adrift

I walk away at Kirkwood
to find the grave of the old ranch hand
Jan pointed out from a wooden bridge
across the Snake River.

For in the end,
like David Kirk,
I simply was.

Born Nov 26, 1852
Died Jan 3, 1916
He died of influenza
He died of kidney cancer
She died in an auto accident
She died of old age
He died of stroke
He died of a gunshot
He died

I was dead for
a million years
before I was born
and I’ll be dead
for millions of years
after I die.

And like taking a cup of water
out of the Snake River,
my life doesn’t alter the flow.
The river will still run
from Hell’s Canyon Dam
to Dug Bar
without me.

Today is the last day
I can write on the water
and it feels so feckless.

Tomorrow I can write
about the motorcycle trip home
stopping to unsore my ass
at Denny’s in LaGrande.

Next week I can write about my daughter’s
first week of high school at the
Arts and Communication Magnet Academy,
maybe about her cartooning class.

Or I can choose to not write
at all and simply be.
Neither will change
my gravestone.

For five days I was treated to a group experiment floating
down the river of Snake
Trying to see where I fit in,
From Ingrid’s isolation and disappointment
To Pam’s obsession with sheep,
Chelsea’s innocent vigor,
Vickie and Roberta’s laugh of loons,
Kathy’s quiet reflection,
Annick’s sentient halo of white hair,
Patrick’s indestructible hair of youth,
Caitlin’s fire of independence
John’s life of adventure
And Jan’s unassuming friendship.

I found that where I fit in
is between the boats
on a kayak.
Adrift, adrift, adrift.

Photos of rattlesnakes, fawns
Mormon crickets, lizard pictographs
and the canyon, the canyon, the canyon
will keep this trip in my memory.
And while it too will be feckless,
it is an adventure in my life.

If you etch-a-scetched my life
the connecting lines would center
on Joseph Oregon
with spokes out to Honolulu Hawaii
State College Pennsylvania,
Charleston South Carolina
and Beaverton Oregon.

If you etch-a-schetched my brain
the lines would center around purpose
with spokes out to Susan and Sarah,
my dogs Henry Bruno and Teddy
my life in science and my writing.

But in the end,
my gravestone, like David Kirk’s,
will simply say
“I was”


Kevin Nusser, Portland, OR