Yuba River at Downieville

River is a constant roar,
A rush, a smooth-always sound
unlike the ocean with its comings,
goings, long pause between each surge.  River
edges banked with rocks, unlike
the sea’s smooth sand. Down
the mountains waves, bumplike,
small rushing hills of water, strive 
toward the ocean, remote as deserts.
But down they tumble, fresh
from their life as recent snow.
How long to reach the sea. Days?
Months? They’re moving faster now,
fast enough to meet the future
coming back upstream. 

Where the Downieville River
meets the North Fork, the two crash
at first, like ill-mannered cars.
Then in the blustery turbulence
they merge, the calm resolution
of a fierce argument.  Compatible
as the stones they swim above,
they flow together, eternal partners
blended into one on the journey
to the well-married sea.

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I’m a retired librarian living in the Foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains in California after many decades in Berkeley. I share my household with my daughter and grandkids, a goofy old dog, and two cats. I am also a classical violinist.

My poems have appeared or are forthcoming in several little magazines and journals. I’ve been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.

“Running Out of Colors” was the title of my first book of poetry (Hartmus Press, 1972.)