Walking to the Sea

He is walking to the sea
He must go down to the sea
Rising in the dawn light he started walking
Just went out the door, a backpack 
Carrying the things anyone needs
On such a trip – planned or unplanned,
Fleeing in the night, rent unpaid
Leaving at sunrise, truck loaded,
Tractor in the barn, leaving
At noon leisurely and too late 
To do anything once you get to mountains
Except gawp at the view, then turn around, 
Drive home, stop for a cup of coffee in Winthrop.
Whatever the details of the leaving, take with you:
A raincoat
A knife and some matches
A candle
A sweater and a blanket
A zip-lock bag of jerkey
And some dates, still fresh.
Sturdy shoes and a strong heart
A bottle of clean water
For walking to the sea.

He went out the door
He paused to say good-bye to the towhees
Still rifling the garden for grubs,
Past the goldfinch-ravaged sunflowers
And the rose he planted in the spring
Putting out one last autumnal flower.

Wind strips the last rattling leaves from the ash
Quail huddle against the wind
Two doves come for water
On a dark, wrung out iron grey morning
The walker drops his car keys, house keys,
Mailbox key into a potted geranium. No need.
This is just a walk, far as it seems, far,
Far, very far, across mountains and brutal plains
Where there is no water, nor the sound of water,
To the sea.

He must go to the sea, down to the sea
And when he gets there – though he can already 
Hear it in his heart, see with his inward eye
Long streaks of white foam rolling giant
Trees in the waves grasp – 
When he gets there it is likely 
He will keep on walking until the cold
Ancient salt waves wash over 
Him, keep walking, keep his feet in the kelp
Forest, and see wonders, wrecked ships, skulls
Of proscribed priests, now yielding sponge prayers,
defiant slaves still in bodily chains, heroes, 
Darting fish, little crabs shining in coruscating light, 
Dappled living light, on and on, down where the day
turns to emerald and jade and pearls bubble up
out of bottomless chasms of darkness.

But that is far, far, very far off, very far away
And the walker has just come to the place where the suburban 
Trail turns wild in pinyon and juniper, a mile 
Above the sea, two thousand miles from the shore.
Three hundred pinyon jays fill the trees, mocking him 
With unhinged laughing calls, 
Under a sky now gone cloudless blue
Sun strikes sky hammer unsmiling, without pity
the wind mutters
You will never get where you are going, 
Walking to the sea.

But for now red dust rises in little puffs 
At each step, drawing the moisture from his throat
Already thirsty, already hungry, sweat already
Trickling down his back under the inadequate
The too heavy the unbalanced pack
Already weak knees, already heart pounding under 
Ribs and in the ears, lightheaded, vague nausea 
Settled in the pit of his already empty stomach. 
Spike in his side, reminder of radiation
Scars and yew poison.

Ahead lie the mountains, bald blades of light,
Farther now than they seemed at first. 
Steep whaleback hills, sheer cliffs, crumbing canyons,
Muddy rivers, bar the traveler from the massif, blue 
In aethereal distance. Farther off now than at first, 
A longer way. His steps are shorter, the wind picks up
Red dust from his footsteps and carries it ahead, 
As if even the wind is eager to shelter 
Behind chamisa and wolfberry, ominous
In its burned-over barren holiness.

If he walks ten miles a day, and this will 
Not happen, he will walk for half a year.
Can he walk, just walk, not considering
Food for his belly, water for his heart, 
Shoes to keep the prickly pear out, fire 
To keep the wild things and the wind away?

First night, dusk comes, virga
Falls over the western mountains, 
Veils of dark tears never reaching
The beseeching earth, dry as sin.
A chill in the thin air the instant
The sun drops below orange layer-cake
Mesa. Elk cross in silhouette over distant
Dry ridges, vanishing with shadows 
As long as vanished summer days.

Forbidden fire against the soot-stained stone
Pinyon incense smoke dogs curl around 
Blanketed knees, rising around him, covering
Scent of stale sweat, stinging tired eyes.
A rustling in the dark, light dancing against 
Mountain walls, small stain of light 
On ancient sea-bed stone
If any are awake
If any have eyes to see.

Wind comes with the sun
The traveler rises, mouth parched
Watches sunrise, takes some slow steps
As his walking prayer begins to turn over
In his mind, in his steps, in his breath.
A long way to water now it seems, 
But in the first clean light of waking day
He sees white flashing cottonwoods ahead, 
But as always here farther than they look.

Downhill now, lost elevation breaking the heart, 
Along the ancient double-track dust road, 
Little junipers coming up in the center.
The dust from his steps now flees behind him
Wind like a stone, a goat wind in a rock face,
Right in his face, bringing tears, snatching 
Away the breath. Buffeting bare hands and ears.
The wind calls his name, cries his fate.
The road is strewn with blossoms
Paintbrush, locoweed, larkspur, 
Anil del muerto, deadman’s sunflower.
The last flowers, hanging on past their day.

Another night under the tall sagebrush
Under the blanket, under a moon
So bright the shadows are dark as day
Coyotes shriek and gabble
Night birds buzz like old transformers
By the river the wind in the cottonwoods.

Giant cottonwood, cottonwood giants 
By the standing stone at the place
Where water flows from the rock
Listen to the river murmuring 
Over gravel shoals, reluctant 
He crosses the iron bridge skeleton
Starting, at last, water bottle filled again
Up sandy-floored canyons, through silent
Walls of white stone, winding paths 
To the base of inaccessible cliffs
Marked with the sign of old water,
Rattlesnake petroglyphs.

This road is scarcely a road. 
Long abandoned, but still littered
With cast off vodka bottles, unidentifiable
Fragments of vanished automobiles
Rusted black, half-eaten by sun and wind.
Up, and the track grows narrow, steeper,
Zig-zagging ascent along the canyon wall,
Dust now glittering white, while the sky 
Grows dark with clouds, and the lightning
Streaks violet and unheard over empty
Mountains, mutter builds into rumble,
A tall ponderosa on the looming ridge
Bursts into incandescent embers 
In an eruption of flame and the utterance 
Of a mighty voice. Rain comes cold.

A dream: the sea-seeker sleeps under a rock 
Ledge, soot-blackened from ten thousand years
Of fire and smoke. Rain slants in lashing sheets.
Rain strikes like stones on old window glass
And slate, coals of fire glow on an eternal hearth,
Strange faces half revealed in flame, wisps of smoke,
Over everything the sighing soughing crying
Roar of the surf rattling stones in its fist.
Watcher peers from the high dormer window
Fan of five leaded panes, five bulbs in the lumiere,
Illuminate now a golden room, but the watcher
Beholds only the darkness, even the shining fir
Branches are concealed in the wrack and the storm
Lighthouse on the point gone dark, no birds cry,
Wind presides over dark billows, as it was.

Sun rises in splendor
Over plains rolling like waves
Stone ship
Wheeling birds
Floating island
Embrace of living light
Flowers spring at each step
Heat and dust finally broken
Towering thunderheads fill afternoon’s
Sky. Thunder roars like the deep sea
Crack of waves, flashes of lightning, 
Wind comes, no shelter here
Except the storm itself.

Mountains like floating islands
In a cloudy sea, sun reflected
In blinding glare from cloudtop
Waves, fortresses of frost
Ice in the gray sea
Fog of pearls, waves of pearl
Gray, billows of silver grey
Like frosted sea glass.
Clouds pour through gaps in the mountains
Down canyons of dark pine
Where birds huddle still 
Against the mist.
Deer shelter in the cover of red willow
Growing by the crystal creek, trout shadows
Dart beneath the shadows of cottonwoods.
Old memories tantalize like wisps of lover’s
Hair blown across his face, blown across time, 
But when wakes, the space is empty.

He stands still by the stream
Until a rabbit nonchalant
Lopes out of the brush
Then freezes
Dark eye catching the wide sky
Then bolts
Off down the trail
As a childhood rhyme
Raises in his mind.

Walking, he leaves the river, passes
Dark firs full of grouse, grey jays,
Up into the sky, but still hidden
In the towering rocks. Ravens call
Like stones dropping, dark, invisible
In the shadowed shade of the fir trees.

Clouds gather dark against white rock
Mountains, lightning flickers, thunder calls
Across arroyos, across canyon, across
The deep gorge of the river
Dust rises in the wind before the rain
Wall of earth fleeing from heaviness.

All night, after the torrents of the storm
Rain falls soft, wetting the world
Like tears. His steps grow slow, stabbing, 
Burning in his side, his breath shortens,
Heart hammers like a distant drum, 
Lost church bells dinning in his ears. 

But now, only now, following insinuation
Of wind and the edicts of the thunder, 
Now he looks ahead and sees the mountains
Close by, rocky steeps, ridges like beached
Whales, dark woods marching up distant
Rampart ridges, ridge after ridge, mounting 
The sky, insurmountable. And now
He knows, only now, that he will never
Reach the sea, that he will not see the waves
Again, or hear the muttering pounding
Rock-rattling surf, or feel the spindrift
Spray cold on his face. Now he is climbing
To the very roof of the mountains, heart 
Of the wind, where there is no sea,
But only the imprint of ancient shells
Filling the rocks that once lay under waves.

But how sweet the duff under the cedars,
A place, finally, to rest out of the wind
Shielded from the sun, covered from the rain,
Kinglet nested in the trees of the Lord,
The holy trees, like the little druid bird
Clinging to the trunk of a beech tree
Far away where the world is green.

But now it is green here, too. 
The big clouds come unseasonable
From the Sierra Madre, the flowers 
Bloom again red flames as the penstemon
Fade, roses from across the sea fade
In the mountain sky’s heat. 

He is nesting, nested, resting
In this skeleton of sticks lined 
With down, bits of baling twine,
Horse hair, orb of twigs hidden
In the branches, sheltered 
From wind, sun, rain, a world
Bounded in safety, concealed
From the ravens of trouble
Nest-seeking devourers foiled
By warmth, sustenance, cover.

As the walker rests, withdraws
Into himself, from self, shrinks
Invisibly, wind leaves his narrow
Chest, blood drains from dwindling
Limbs, heart now skipping beats
Though still in time, keeping time
Like a smith on the anvil
Iron, anvil, iron, anvil,
The ringing in his ears now
Far away, the physical jolt
Barely felt. The blows separate
Grow gentle, finessing the last
Finish from darkening steel
Still cherry-red at the center
Now out of reach within
Darkness taints the edges
One last trip through the fire
Before the long cooling quench.

Then finished blade, this body
Falls away like fire-scale
Under the grindstone of time
Leaving the shining steel
Perfect, though still twisted 
By the fire.

Heart clock winds down
Falters, stops, murmurs,
Eyes behold one last light
Clouds gather, then part
Illuminating peaks of distant
Mountains. 
Sea at last banished beyond
Attainment, past endeavor
Hope lost in hope
Peace sinking into peace
All surpassing peace.

Clock without hands keeps
No more time, waits for the end
Of days, for the players
To leave the darkened stage
Confused babble of mis-spent years,
Unclear, making fool’s sense
Of half remembered dreams,
He understands, he presumes
To suppose, lacks no doubt,
Convinced, though he still
Does not know what the song
Was all about.

Author: Duncan MacNae

Exiled Gael, scion of the Dust Bowl, dweller within Divine Grace, admirer of mountains, I have made my peace with trout and the starlings. Looking for a river and healing trees. duncanmacduncan5@gmail.com View all posts by Duncan MacNae