the surface of capitol lake

the surface of capitol lake has a reddish muddy look,

as seen at a glance from the overpass spur

that leads from I-5 to 101

in a curve high above the water

that reveals a quick panoramic view

extending from the westside to downtown and the capitol dome

with docked sailboats and the puget sound in between

and, in the distance, the olympic mountains

marking the bottom of this long slab of rain cloud

with their little teeth of snow.

I’ve seen all that before, though,

so my eyes are drawn to the turbid wavelets,

visible in detail even from this far away

like the thick thumbscrews of paint and whatnot

in a georges braque piece of art, the still dark swirl of which

is the same up close as from across a broad museum gallery.

behind me the deschutes river empties into the estuary

in a torrent that would burst the bounds

of the horseshoe that arches over the image of that waterfall

on cans of olympia beer, and, the other way,

at the point where the roiling water turns as grey as the sky,

a lock, invisible from here, lets lake water out

into an extremely-diluted thumb of the pacific ocean.

“where water comes together with other water”

is the name of a poem by raymond carver,

that consummate northwestern author,

about loving all that flows through life

from its source through tribulations to an appreciative present day,

but what about water that comes together with other water

that’s then hammered from above by a third kind of water

to create an entirely new metaphor before my eyes?

that’s rich sediment down there, facets of the past

split open like a tree’s rings chipped by an axe.

I’m as close as I’ll ever need to be.