Wapato Island
November 5th Tuesday 1805
a Cloudy morning Som rain the after part of last night & this morning. I could not Sleep for the noise kept by the Swans, Geese, white & black brant, Ducks &c. on a opposit base, & Sand hill Crane, they were emensely numerous and their noise horrid.
—William Clark (Lewis and Clark Journals, edited by Gary E. Moulton)
We hide under the old oaks.
A glimmer of setting sun
reveals wings in flight.
They come in threes, fives, a dozen,
flying like arrows,
they bugle, chortle, and rattle,
their calls older than cave art.
The Sandhill Cranes cruise in
from corn fields,
shift course when they spot us,
parachute down into Sturgeon Lake
perform their primal dance,
choreographed over eons:
leaping, dipping, flapping, bowing.
They join the gathering hundreds,
a roost in the shallow marsh
where they are stained cinnamon red,
where Coyote does not venture.
Their song lifts and falls
answered by the calls of hundreds
of Canada Geese,
dozens of White-fronted,
but no Brants.
Ghosts of Multnomah Indians
gather here, chant with the cranes,
dig up roots of arrow-leaf wapato.
Today they are gone—
wiped out two centuries ago
by epidemic fever.
The red sun dips into the Coast Range.
We stay into the darkness,
the cranes sail in by the score,
their crescendo pulses.
It’s our last night
before the gate is locked
and hunting begins.
We walk out slowly in the dark
avoiding cow pies,
the grass nibbled to the ground.
We hear the deep hooting
of a Great-horned Owl,
its black shadow glides over us.
In a nearby field,
a coyote howls.
Among Lava Flows
Newberry Volcano, Oregon
Our paddles dip in the frigid water,
the blue canoe glides effortlessly
across the caldera pool
where the volcano collapsed,
we float among Western Grebes,
rafts of buffleheads and coots,
shoals of kokanee salmon.
We reach the shore—
pyroclastic flow, young lava,
young like raven fledglings,
discharged only 1300 years ago,
lava that surged over basalt
over alluvial deposits
over sediment from Missoula floods.
We met some years ago
on a nearby trail
among Ponderosa pines,
the play of Clark’s Nutcrackers.
A flock of Oregon Juncos followed us
until we wandered into the lava tube,
where in the faint glow
we embraced.
Flows of rhyolite rock—
boulders of obsidian,
blacker than ebony,
edges of midnight silver
that cut through ice,
become arrowheads,
knives, scrapers of buckskin.
The earth shudders—
horizons quiver and spin
icy waves crash over the bow
the canoe rolls—
we brace on the gunnels
our boat rights itself,
we await shock waves,
eruption of fire and ash.
Seconds feel
like hours. In slow motion
we paddle doggedly,
come ashore on the beach,
rolling white pumice stones.
Our feet slip-slide,
we hold each other close
waiting—
the earth stops trembling,
sky reflects deep blue.
Francis Opila has lived in the Pacific Northwest most of his adult life; he currently resides in Portland, OR. His work, recreation, and spirit have taken him out into the woods, wetlands, mountains, and rivers. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Parks and Points, Soul-Lit, Windfall, and Clackamas Literary Review. He enjoys performing poetry, combining recitation and playing Native American flute.
