An Ode To Cascadia.

The clouds whispered in soft forms,
telling me the secrets of rivers and leaves.
The pines grew tall,
bent atop,
beneath the weight of cold air,
extracting their green.

The lake mirrored houses and mountains,
a glistening respite for a weary mind.
The peaks, snow-covered, scarfed in clouds,
proud to be singular in their jagged magnificence.

A lowly buzz of an unknown species moved around;
I heard it flitter between dust and darkness.

A slow life is trapped, fossilized in time.
What minuscule existence these people must live?
The smallest of aches,
the numbest of pains,
dip sweetly like a blue magpie in the Douglas Fir.
Into the evening, she flies away,
a crescent flight path arcing in the full harvest moon.

Cascadia emboldens you;
it serenades with time.
It slows the senses
and manifests your mind.

You’d be forgiven for thinking
you’re at the edge of the world,
slowing, decaying into The Sound.

And where does the wind go when she stops breathing?
It rested in Cascadia
before upping and leaving.

© G. K. Allum 2025