Pudgy Indian

This morning,
stars dot the blackened sky
as I start my usual journey
across the Burnside Bridge.

But, just like everyday,
it is not usual.

My sister, the river,
is shining in a glorious beauty.
Her dark green surface
has beads and threads of reflections
from the street lights golden and silver.
One looms like a doorway
in the reflection of a tree.
Today, nothing is the same
as my beautiful sister
is smooth ripply waves of beauty.

And I see
through the twisted fingers of the bare trees
...the crescent moon
waning above SE Portland.
Maybe over my daughter?
It hooks the earth and sky together
in legends forgotten
or not yet created.
A star on her upper left,
(Mercury maybe?)
it looks as if the moon
has tossed her there
in yet another forgotten
or not yet created legend.

The clouds in the sky
on the eastern horizon
are dusted brown
as the sun reaches and pulls
the earth in yet another
completed circle to be
started over in another beautiful
and wonderful day.

I make my offerings,
but am so dumbfounded by the beauty of it all
that I'm not sure what to pray
so I pray for everybody's good health
and make my offerings
on the frosty sidewalk
across the tiniest
great divide
and in the middle of it all
geese start honking
and they fly directly overhead
10 in all
9 on the left and one on the right
in the arrow pointing
to where they need to go.

THIS IS A FUCKING BEAUTIFUL WORLD
AND DAMN
IF I DON'T WANT IT ALL BACK!