I saw the sun rise this morning over Mt. Hood, the glow that announced to the horizon its approach. There should be in the life of every man, every woman, that moment when seeing dawn lift, peel back the shroud from Mt. Hood causes the sudden intake of just that much extra breath.
The night wraps us in the faint light of the glowing moon. The snow falls, reflected in the street light’s glow, and settles on the snow fields of recent days that obscure the earth that suffers beneath. We will flee tomorrow and leave the snow in our wake, hoping that on our return a week hence, some if not all of it will have washed into the lake, and we, having borne the brunt of the sun, will remember what summer will eventually offer us.
Then, in a moment, it stopped without warning or obvious cause and it was suddenly dark. I thought of prying open the doors, stepping out into the tunnel, proceeding slowly down the narrow walkway eventually into morning. In the dark, the few bulbs remaining cast a faint glow. It was easy, I knew, to slip from the path onto the rails where a misstep is fatal. When I told her all of this she clucked and said I have these problems because I dreamed only in English with its minefield grammar, where a misstep would blow up the ghosts of the day which had waited so patiently for the exorcism of sleep. She said she could dream in five languages, but to avoid confusion limited herself to English and Mandarin so when she sensed she was drifting toward the dam, she could take up pictograms and ride them across the river of night.