After I Left Your House

for Katie

They say you haven’t touched the soul of a place
until you touch the water. So I sat on the shore of the Deschutes
where it flows between concrete banks, tame as a kitten
(believe that if you dare), dangled my feet
watched the ducks dabbling, drifting geese and float-boats
while an osprey glided overhead.

Just outside the city there’s a hill—
just beyond the clever brick-parquet sidewalks,
the hanging flower-baskets and outdoor-seating restaurants
beyond the sloping ponderosa shadows and the highway underpasses—
there’s a brown hill, covered with dead grass and sagebrush.
A desert hill, like the forehead of a lion
peering down at the city
with slitted, sun-bright eyes.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside