Emilia Grace Butterfly Hommestaad
Thick white fibers with little seeds tucked inside float in the air above the Columbia River, telling all the school children that it is time for a break. Falling down like a snowstorm, the Cottonwood is trying to fool you into thinking it’s winter, though the sun stays out a little later each night. Stuffy noses and watery eyes, Camas and Washougal wait patiently for the dry snow to stop falling.
The snow in Klamath Falls is true and the trees are stronger. Incense Cedars stand tall on lonely hills of alkaline soil and dry grass, cold and icy caves hidden below. If you open your eyes you can see bark that looks like a rock wall and scaly green spines arranged into forms more fluffy than my thick winter coat, and if you close your eyes you will smell my fathers wood shop. In Klamath Falls, fall forgets to come - summer takes a leap and lands in winter.
Oregon Ash in Ashland Oregon. Slim waxy leaves like that of the avocado tree we tried to grow in the kitchen. Bark that cracks in the dry cold just like the palms of my hands. Groups of seed pods hang down like locks of hair, much thicker and much greener than mine.
Rolling hills with little houses and acres in between, Tolkien wrote the geography of Roseburg as he wrote the books we used to read. Spanish Moss hangs off of the White Oaks, the long beards of wizards who used to live on and off the pages. Springs that wind around the bases and through the clumps of grass babble their way into announcing the arrival of spring.
Sweetgums sprinkle the Cascades with the same cinnamon I put on my coffee in the morning - the red satin anthocyanin made to match the color of my cheeks after a long day in the wind. Bothell feels most like home in the autumn.
CLAMOR 