There are special places in the world, places where the land seems to vibrate.

Starlings cry
as winter arrives
on hawk wings.
I rebuild the fire
to prepare soba.*

Drive east of Salem into the North Santiam River canyon, past towns each smaller than the last, and you will begin to feel that you’ve arrived at the center of the universe. You haven’t, but you will expect you have.

Apple tree limbs
crack from heavy snow
and silver thaw.
I listen for footsteps
before I make noodles.

Arrive on a clear day (long odds in this wet country), take time to get out of your car and walk along the river’s bank. You feel the energy, the land teeming with life. Eden must have been like this.

Even crows
seek out dry shelter
from freezing rains.
Wake to an empty bed,
dry rice and cold saki.

Be still, hear the rustle of small animals, the call of birds, glimpse a fox, deer, or if you are very lucky, elk. Listen carefully for the slap of trout or salmon beneath the rush of the river’s rapids.

Afternoon,
robins greet the sun
with frigid song.
I huddle in my quilts
and cry from worry.

Arrive on a wet and windy day in November or March. You may not even get out of car.

Cat whiskers
wake me with their touch,
gentle as dew.
A key rattles the lock,
I start from the sound.

But with care, you may still feel the land, accompanied by the river and an occasional crow or jay. If you do, you will come back.

Satisfied,
we watch the snow fall
into the night.
Morning may mean cold rice
but you will have hot tea.

Of course, bored with nature poems, you may read these words and say what does all of this jabber have to do with this faux oriental poem. I may answer, “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

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* Soba is a buckwheat noodle.