The hurly-burly comes from every side. You anesthetize your perceptions with calculations, tactics, contingencies for looming disasters. You forget.
Near Butte Falls, OR
A journey into Oregon's mountainous heart clears it all away; dispels it with pregnant silence, with brief, poignant songs of red-wing blackbird, finch, and meadowlark.
On my way home, I passed through Crater Lake National Park, where I'd spent a young man's summer working at the lodge. Young men are not immune to beauty. But older men are helpless before it. My heart was pierced.
Carnivorous piscine feeding frenzy
When my time is over, cast my remains in the crater. I am Oregon. Oregon is me.