LOVE LETTER TO COTTONWOOD CREEK (WEST FORK)

by Charles Carreon

Gathering of many smaller flows,

   of trickles and drips,

all proceeding from somewhere above,

   from the peak of sloping granite

we call Mount Ashland --

Down in Hornbrook they depend on you

   for all their water --

Up here we splash in hollow bowls

   of rough, rust colored rock.

Nearby the flow's exposed seams of grey

   clay that crumbles to make a nice,

rough soap or body paint, or just lies

there getting soft on the bank.

   There's seats of sculpted sandstone

   and a bathtub for children, and a short,

rough slide, all literally a stone's

throw from a logging road:  for naked

hippies only; we know your secrets,

Cottonwood, you can't hide them.

I've found the cool, fresh spots where

deer make the damp earth smooth, resting

intimate with you in a narrow, steep

ravine shaded with willows.

I've sat next to where two flows meet

to make you, and listened to the sound

of their union.

I've walked further up and seen

your tributaries blocked with logs

and also the shade stripped off where forty-foot

pines and cedars stood, protecting from the sun's

heat the tiny, vital flow that is yours by right.

I've looked at the skidder tracks

where tall, slender trees

were dragged away in chains.

Only the crooked ones, the twisted ones,

the dwarfed and gnarled ones are left,

proving the truth of the Taoist's argument.

Oh, Cottonwood, I know you're all right,

and you'll make it even though you dried

up altogether this summer for the first

time in years,

You're running now at least eighty gallons

a minute,

And I love you and all your rocks and boulders

lying bare in the steep ravines;

I love how you make dams and pools out of

rotten old snags;

I love you and your oaks and alders that

grow so close to the crumbling bank that

in rainy times they sometimes fall into you

or perhaps clean across, making bridges

across the muddy torrent that is you in midwinter.

Further down, where you earn your name

giving life to white-barked cottonwoods

with leaves that whisper, exposing

silver-dollar undersides, down there

you're some else's,

But here at the West Fork I know your ways;

I've spoken intimately with you

by means of cups and buckets,

We've held long-distance conversations

through the hose of the waterpump;

You've washed my dishes and my body

and those of my children innumerable times

with your pure, clear hands,

And in the midst of summer heat

I can lay my head in your lap

while you pour a stream of water over it,

washing out the heat and the thoughts

with a roaring of bubbles and wet sound

The cold wrings me out and pulls me

together, clears my eye and washes

the dust from my ears; I can hear

you then and I listen for true words

that no one understands.

I think perhaps that love is like this,

that I give myself to you walking barefoot

up your long, straight shallow stretches,

slipping on the smooth rocks, and

I won't think about how I heard

there once were trout in you before

Fruitgrowers built a dam they needed

to use you --

I won't think about it, Cottonwood,

as if it meant that you were losing ground:

I'll remember the petrified branches

scattered on your banks,

And the ancient whispers I heard

among the alders when I touched them,

As if I'd been stirring Grandmother's bones,

and I'll remember then that your young face

is ancient.  I won't cry for your wounds:

I won't disturb the spirits

with my foolish crying, Cottonwood;

I'll just be quiet, Cottonwood,

I who breathe briefly, here with you

who will be flowing

long after I am gone.

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