Flying from Oakland to Portland

Alameda, downtown, Lake Merritt,
bay water, breaking ripples
windsurfer, decommissioned naval base and runway
port and crane, I580, Lines of spaghetti laid down as arteries,
Emeryville, Campanile, Doris and Chuck’s, Berkeley Hills
reservoirs, Carquinez Straights, Grizzly Bay, Browns Island
faults and Folds, Oil tanks, Salt Marsh, Flooding Tide
gridded lines of houses, planned and gated communities,
landslide, Grassland, Salt Pond, Scrub
smoke plume, fire, Lake Berryessa, The Great Sacramento Valley
rock Outcrop on Lakeshore, Water flooding valleys
parallel ridges of folded rocks smashed against the continent
human quilt of agricultural fields laid down over her bed
of sweet mounds, hills, mountains,
lurching out from under the covers a stripe of red sandstone
rock thrust up and over soft tan silt and clay, red sandstone
holds the long ridge up. River meanders across the ridge carving
rock apart, slow but sure, river cuts. Hot springs there, in that
valley warm water arises bubbling between the mother’s folds
does she long for her to touch us the way my hand wants to reach
out and caress her slope and breast
again the quilt of farm land spread smooth across the valley,
the bed of mother Earth where we lay our heads, with which we
feed our round bellies, shadow of cloud blocks the view now,
then again river, canal, reservoir emerge into view. A stripe of green
land and field along the banks of the Sacramento River hides the water,
other fields are tan, brown, buff, pale green, dry,
only scattered fields kept fecund with water this time of year.
Flying north the valley narrows as
coast range and sierra slowly converge, purple pen explodes, ink on
hand and face, wash off what I can, drink
coffee, water and return, pick up the cadence, the
view again. Ache of skin, ache of muscle to move, dance,
reach yield, great reservoir, crenulated red shoreline,
volcano, forest, dappled, small round craters, curious
volcanic landforms, mounds, don’t know for sure where
we are as we pass north of the great valley, north of Shasta to
Oregon, south of the Williamette still in mountains forests
unnamed in my mind, another river dammed, waters held in
check filling the mothers valley, no longer cutting her so deeply,
and the clouds return now, look to be moving fast
but no, the shadows are nearly stationary so it must be us
who is moving fast across the land. Long straight road cuts
right across forest, hill, man-sign = straight road = valley’s
flooded and still now. Stay still the men say again and
again to the mother taming river and shore, but eventually
she breaks free, moves, dances again, thrusts
herself dramatically over any man made wall, dikes fail,
shorelines flood, people flee in horror and look to blame another
human: president, governor, agency director takes the blame,
becomes the fall guy. She has been still here in this wilderness
for a while. Leaving us feeling secure but she might choose to
dance any day now, to wash this coastline in a bath of salt water,
washing away all that itchy debris of
development from her shore. Does she choose?
This mother of mine, of yours, of ours, does she choose or
simply tolerate our presence upon her. Can we learn to stroke and
caress her with love and affection?, can we learn to be her lover?
Can we erotically lay our head upon
her bosom knowing she will continue to give and yield to our hand.
The clouds form mountains now, ridges, valleys, spectacular and
ephemeral forms of water, booming thunder, shedding ice,
my hands cold now with purple splotches of ink, one small diamond
on my finger, nails longer than usual, I softly clutch this pen
knowing that it is keeping me sane in the
flurry of time here, the random conversation over heard:
“time is going to run them over.” The rumble of voice and engine,
the sway of hips, the suckle of breast, the hand reaching for a
cheek and skin melting away, on fire between palm
and cheek. An invitation in eyes, too close to the edge.
We should be going down now, falling slowly back, perhaps
that is why the bell has rung. I long to see the seatbelt light come
on, to feel us descend again toward her, through
cloud, controlled falling, no longer rising the mother
inevitably pulls us back to her flesh. Controlled falling, foot on
pavement, we roll forward one step at a time. We fall into the
clouds now, slowly any sight of land or sky disappears,
then the shadow of the plane on cloud, and then the
shadow is gone, a ghost, a vision of ourselves dissolved in white.
Too bright to look out the window now
and yet I keep looking for land. The sky comes first,
looking up, a bit of blue, then it too is gone. There she is as we
descend out of the thickest set of clouds, I
see two more layers, blankets between us and the earth,
the soil, we fly now in a sandwich of clear air between cloud layers.
Another sheet of white to be lost in, I want your hand on my cheek,
my shoulder, I want to fall into your arms tonight. We pass through
white again, only a veil now between us, before she disappears again.
I yearn to see beneath these sheets her skin exposed,
seemingly vulnerable to my touch. Wheels drop, ears pop,
we get louder as we come into this place. She likes to make loud
noises in quiet places. She likes to disrupt her easy life. I have lived an
interesting life. It shows on my face and hands,
blotched purple at this moment. Portland metro emerges
now form the clouds industrial zones, housing, pool, field,
freeway, cloud bank and she disappears and reappears so fast I
cannot make out any landmarks, don’t know which freeway
that was. River flow and tributary, not Williamette, then who?
Fields, river bend, forest, clear cut square, we spin in a circle of
air to land the other way around, accelerate briefly over golfing green
and fairway, white veil, hilltop pool, fields stripped in shades of green,
Columbia River broad and deep chasm, cut down to slow lazy river here, now we fly west toward the airport. A child sings, I ache for you.
Green island, river shoals, tree and field again we fall closer, small
orange tent on island shore, logs, great bridges crossing from
Oregon to Washington and back. Grass blades now, trucks, cars, rear
wheels touch runway, then the front, air brakes, deceleration,
we’re one hour late, no dance tonight.