Its course altered beyond recognition
the south fork of the Stanislaus
emerges after years of drought.
Dead snags are all that remain
of the stream-side forest that was
(even the poison oak is gone).
In place of beaches . . mud!
Where deep pools once beckoned
rapids sparkle brightly with sound.
Everything rearranged without a plan.
Chaotic!
Entropy on display.
Yet the river sings again
freed from its bonds
given a temporary reprieve
by the least favored of means
and one certainly not envisioned
when the shouts of “fill the dam”
drowned out the cries of “save the river.”
The river sings again
but few birds answer its call.
This episode is but a stanza
or maybe a refrain
in a song much longer
than the memory of man.
Yes, the river will return someday
to all its former glory
but not in my lifetime
or those of my children.
The dreariness of a cloudy October day
punctuates the dead pallor
of this place
that brought me joy
in another time.
Autumn has many dimensions,
sad reverie but one.
I gaze across the stream
where once my parents lived
young, happy, close to the earth.
There used to be a gold mine there, amid flat terrain
flat no longer, now terraced
by layers of mud and sand.
The trees remain, lifeless
like ghosts in a graveyard
arms reaching skyward
their purpose long forgotten.
Yet amid the devastation
the solitude remains
the waters’ lullaby only disturbed
by the sound of traffic high up the canyon walls
or the occasional airplane.
I spent my childhood
my formative years
believing that this place would always remain
undisturbed.
I suppose the original inhabitants
assumed the same.
Why would they have had reason
to think otherwise?
Their sensibilities
never envisioned
the mastery of nature
(or the attempt thereof).
They fell victim
to the White man’s diseases
but not his madness.
***
Yes, the river will return
long after we are gone
It will sing its song anew
for ears not yet formed.
At some future moment
once “western civilization’ has exhausted its possibilities,
the river will recover from us
and return to its natural ways
dynamic
insistent
constant, yet ever changing . . .
a Pas de Deux for the ages.
From tiny rivulets
to cascading pools
to raging torrents
the river will once again sing its song
for those present to hear it.
Will our kind be among them?
Tim Konrad
Murphys, CA
27 October 2015
sonora2sonoma 