Ice Dams and the Noah Thing

Missoula Flood and Mount Hood

Grandmother mountain watched  hazy smoke

year after year after year after year.

Maybe the fire crowned in firs or raced through sage,

but way up past the timberline

her face remained untouched — white, regal and calm.

 

There was nothing to burn after the flood

rolled house-size boulders

across the Basin like pebbles in rivulets

trickling off her flanks each spring.

Grandmother went all dark, foamy and cold.

 

As it does, the water sought its own level.

The trees grew back one day.

In the ancient time a pair of doves reflected

in the water’s shiny surface.

Like Grandmother, they were cool, grey and hopeful.

© 2017 Joseph Galligan

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