Sixty thousand people
lived along this area
eating salmon, wapato
for time unknown.

Flooded by the tide
the ponds once full of this
arrow-root, wapato bulbs
brought up from beneath
and loaded into boats.
And millions of salmon
came up, caught, and eaten.

On dry ground
where I build a fire
people lived once before.
Now I'd be arrested
if anyone knew 
I slept there—
a "wilderness area"
empty of people
full of cows.

Gangs of raccoons surround my camp
glowing eyes in my headlamp beam,
some in trees
then the moon rises.
"Columbia" flowing in the distance—
the word everyone has forgotten the meaning of.
Was it's life so short?

Columbia, the "female embodiment"
of our great nation moving
across the face of the earth:
"Westward Progress"

The only way to get here now:
Park a car    far away, and walk
or hitch, or bike       to where the dykes are built
and a low floodgrove of oaks grows.
Leave no car, and none will know
where you sleep, or care
that you are there.

I lay my pillow    against an ash tree
willow near         gnawed by muskrat
birds circling      layers of birds          under birds
sunset
tallgrass
silence
owl.

One cow lows for her calf
as they come in
and they don't know why I'm here.
They spook in the dark and run for a barn
in the distance.

How long has it been
since someone has slept here?

Along the big river
Nch'i-wána