Above the Estuary (Before the trail closure through Cascade Preserve)

The river’s long curve 
enters the bay in streak between meadow 
and forest—algae green of freshwater, 
kelp green of salt. 
                                    We’ve come up alone 
through the gradual unfolding of alder 
and spruce, over the opening slopes 
to grasses bowed slightly toward us, tall 
as our youngest last year at twelve—always ahead 
on a trail—his dark hair bobbing above reedgrass 
with each spring in his step. 

From this view the river’s blue-opal glaze 
melts rather than flows into sea level. 
Small curvatures signal a white grace 
of egrets—they wade easy in mud 
through summers far back 
to our daughters like water birds 
skirting high tide. 
                                    Always attending, 
mists turn in morning 
to single drops on tips of pine 
where we’ve hiked coastlines with toddlers 
packed on our backs, voices buoyant 
with wings of snow-plovers 
through tangible air. 

We sit hugging our knees on steep ground 
until light slants low and lacy 
through hemlock, roots muscular in the grip 
of Pacific slopes.

                                    O preserve 
this host of plants 
and sky, the drift of silence 
over limpet and pool. . . 
                                                And admit our rim 
of remembrance, the maritime Constance
in small rills of the heart.