Salmon Creek Falls

Something got left behind out on that walk.
The road clung like a snake trespassing cliffs,
a flyway high above the sky-sized sea
through crumbling stone and stubborn chaparral.
Just past last chance, and steeper than amusement,
it terminated at a horseshoe bend.
We parked our cars and gathered, listening for
the surf below, the waterfall above.
The trailhead opened where the Indian Paintbrush parted
and led through lurking patches of Poison Oak.
We eyed each jagged leaf as friend or foe
amid wildflowers and strawberry vines.
Up deeper in the cooling shade, the trail
meandered giant boulders shot with jade
and crusty lichen, and we braved haphazard caves
that stuck our shoes with thick black mud.
Down where the water ran full of the sun,
a grove of laurels lined the broken banks.
We took and bruised a leaf between our thumb
and forefinger, and offered its rich scent
for each to breathe like joy of life.
We gathered at the rock bound pool
and watched the water fall in spiral braids
as icy ripples lapped our tired feet
and spray caught rainbows out of sweet thin air.
The background crashing water filled the dale
with unity that made us huddle close
to talk, but mostly, we just sat and looked
and pointed to a rare, endangered flight
of condors spiraling against sea breezes,
praying they would find a way to last.
November 2, 2008
Marc Ladewig
Author of Odysseus-The Epic Myth of the Hero