This is the place where I write,
an outside getaway, my own refuge.
Here there are trees that assume all
the grandeur reserved for sycamore,
tall and so mighty in trunk, as if nature
gave the word to flourish. This is the
forest I love, where the press of
rich green enables me.
Trails wind among carpet clover,
the essence of all that is favored.
Spring sees profusion of bluebell,
as if they were keen to this forest.
But they are now only memory--set
off the trail is a table, weathered
and beaten from sun and rain,
it affords me the space I need.
Not very far from the place where I write,
a bridge sways o'er the canyon, much
like the bridge on which Harrison Ford
cut the rope to stop capture.* It is a
suspension that moves up and down,
set in its own basic rhythm. This is
a bridge I have crossed many times;
below the water runs clear.
I always note when I sit at the table,
how quaint these scenes flash out.
Crossing the bridge is a kick, more
or less, one wee Galloping Gertie.²
Sometimes some folks will amble by,
as they, too, enjoy bridge and nature.
I give a nod, and after they cross,
listen to fine forest murmurs…
…fast forward, to encroachment,
to axes, to bulldozers and forest
killing machines—to progress:
They’ve paved paradise, put
up a parking lot.
* From the movie, Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.
² Galloping Gertie (the Tacoma Narrows bridge) opened in 1940 but collapsed four
months later due to aero-elastic flutter, (uncontrolled oscillations.)