I am from Douglas fir, hemlock, spruce and cedar.
I am from the Cascades, the Blues, the Siskiyous, and the Wallowas.
I am from clear cuts, choker cables, riggers and log trucks with one log loads.
I am from sandy beaches, basalt cliffs and mudflats.
I am from wild geese calling at sunrise, wrens in the thickets, and great blue herons on the other side of the river.
I am from the little creeks, the mighty Columbia and the Pacific breakers.
I am from tricycles, tetherballs, little sisters with skinned knees and a love for bugs.
I am from the ivy by the patio, the hydrangeas with dinner plate size clumps of blossoms and the garden in the back yard.
I am from a wringer washer, a concrete laundry sink and clothes full of the smell of sunshine.
I am from missionaries, Methodist hymnals and fairy rings.
I am from winter gales, spring showers, sunny summer days and autumn fogs and frosts.
I am from lavender, dogwood, daffodils, daylilies, ivy and blueberries.
I am from rivers with concrete barriers, hydroelectric turbines, anda creek that’s lost its namesake salmon run.
I am from Hanford Reach, the Umatilla Arms depot, and the Columbia Gorge where condors may soar again.
I am from logging towns with no mills, harbors with no fish, and farms being swallowed by urban sprawl.
I am from books, and a flute and feeling out of step on the march to wherever.
I am from feeling like I’m on the outside looking in. I am from seeing what no one else seems to see. I am from hearing what no one else seems to hear.
And Russ, you’re right. I think I’m gonna stop here myself.