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.