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