I can imagine river living, living by the river,

the Willamette where it winds through Creswell,

life between the buttes when there was so much

more to uncertainty than there is now.

Calling calling Colorado Gail, calling on my

dead ones, death, calling on the red ones,

milk red spots or stains, the blueberry of

buildings, the gray of grass, it dominates.

And speaking from a higher place, the upper yard needs mowing, shaggy grass. And speaking from a higher place, the ridgelines in my neighborhood are now obscured by mist, there are no mountains, just the thinnest veil of red.
I like the redness of the buds, I like to climb. I hear a new accumulation of rain, some vigorous hissing in the street. The phone rings. The cell phone rings. I turned off the TV. And now the last bit left, the buzzing, stops.