Читать книгу Rain On The River - Jim Dodge - Страница 18

The wet crescents left by the dogs’ tongues

licking spilled cat kibble from the cabin floor;

the strand of light, finer than spider-spun,

unspooling from the center of my chest

as a 20-pound steelhead slashes downstream

through the celadon waters of the Smith;

the gleam of water on Victoria’s flanks

in that moment of stepping

from the sauna into a wild Pacific storm–

vapor-wreathed shimmer, body gone;

the elegance of an elk track

cut in sandy streamside silt;

red alder bud-break in early March;

venison stew and fresh salmon,

garden corn coming on;

Jason asleep on a school night,

his bare right leg dangling from the bed

(geez, he’s getting big);

sliding a chunk of madrone

into the firebox on a snowy night,

damping the wood heater down

for coals to kindle the morning’s fire;

the way the terriers sneeze and leap and race

deliriously through the orchard

when they know we’re going on a walk;

raindrops still cupped in huckleberry leaves

hours after the rain has stopped:

I made 55 years today, still hanging on,

and though only fools lay claim to wisdom

I don’t know what else to call it

when every year

it takes less to make me happy,

and it lasts longer.