A heatwave swallows the mountain.
Attempt to escape.
Turn off to Trillium Lake.
A line of brake lights greets you
half a mile from the lot.
The wait and the crowd seem
less worth the trouble every minute.
Try Clear Lake next,
find a full parking lot, cars
parked illegally along the highway.
Form a new plan, wait to slip in
as people leave in the afternoon.
Drive up to Timberline Lodge,
see Trillium below, its surface
as much boat as water.
It’s hard to care about the debates of the Entmoot
when the flames of Mordor surround you.
You drive back to Timothy Lake,
through three parking lots
to find an open spot.
On the water, you stop paddling, coast in the shade.
Cold water drifts through your fingertips.
Tag: Summer
back from vacation
full laundry hamper in the hallway
washer and dryer on the clock
two towels and a picnic blanket
over the shower rod
desert in the fridge
stale water in a brita filter
a dozen half-empty condiments
on the shelf in the door
tired books on the end table
curled corners
frayed bookmarks
bent pages
every window open
a fan on each sill
ceiling fan at top speed
counterclockwise
feet up on the coffee table
skin like madrone bark
a cold glass of water
against your chest
It rained on Wednesday.
It rained on Wednesday. I walked out to the backyard barefoot— late August— felt the developing mud between my toes, sat down. I felt the cold, fresh rain on my face, thought about the likely grass stains on my jeans soaking through the fibers. The sky was a matte grey that reached out, enveloped me. Where the sun would have been was the torso of a cedar along the southern fence, which happily clapped in the rain. I imagined, in the loosening earth, its roots dancing.
M. Espinosa 