Poem for

The Washougal

                    Because the

                            river was a cold

                            hand with fingers

                            pulling us with it

                                            down

                                                    stream

                    We were wiser for it.

                    Wiser for our dull bodies

                                            drying beside the grim

                                                                      remorseless

                                                                      swiftness

                                                                                    of it

                    Wiser for the black and yellow snakes

                                        that slithered back into the hanging roots

                                        and because we could see

                                        what water

                                        had done to stone

                    a green river cuts

                                    (like a knife)

                                      through solid granite--

                                                                    and going on

                                                                -Dennis Hendrickson