November, Troy

Dawn descends from the canyon’s rim. Or mountains.

Which it is depends if you are looking up or down.

Sideways during last night’s storm, blinded by sleet or in

an eddy of wind. When I wake up I have transformed

into a guide. My client sits in his truck at the confluence

of the Wenaha and Grande Ronde with the heater

on high. A guide’s word is nothing, but today he will catch

a steelhead on the swing then fall asleep at the river’s edge

and I will go home, having slept at the edge of the river

enough to prophecy. If ever the fish and ungulates are absent

Troy will fall, the river will wash away our steps,

the silence that carries on in Spring will need no form.

–Cameron Scott