At the far end of a trip north
In a berry-pickers cabin
At the edge of a wide muddy field
Stretching to the words and cloudy mountains,
Feeding the stove all afternoon with cedar,
Watching the dark sky darken, a heron flap by,
A huge setter pup nap on the dusty cot.
High rotten stumps in the second-growth woods
Flat scattered farms in the bends of the Nooksack
River. Steelhead run now
a week and I go back
Down 99, through towns to San Francisco
All America south and east,
Twenty-five years in it brought to a trip-stop
Mind-point, where I turn
Caught more on this land—rock tree and man,
Awake, than ever before, yet ready to leave.
Whole wasted theories, failures and worse success,
Schools, girls, deals, try to get in
To make this poem a froth, a pity,
A dead fiddle for lost good jobs.
the cedar walls
Smell of our farm-house, half built in ’35.
Clouds sink down the hills
Coffee is hot again. The dog
Turns and turns about, stops and sleeps.
— Gary Snyder, from Riprap, 1958.
Painting by Clayton James.