LATE WINTER STORMS, SIERRA NEVADA—a poem
Mother’s Day, 2017. On this day,
Mother Nature is no wallflower. As
I drive past Donner Memorial State
Park, snow flurries speckle my
Windshield, a reminder of that
Winter here on hundred seventy
Years ago, when frozen travelers
Ate the flesh of their relatives to
Survive until Spring. Winter and rural
America, both holding on tenaciously,
Furiously, but powerless to stop the
Clock.
The little café in Sierraville,
Where I stop for lunch, is
Crowded, a family recounting the
Morning lessons from church, two
Old men cursing the cold, a
Huddle of skiers. The waitress,
Young and lovely as the Girl from
Ipanema, ignores the ambient
Music—leftover Country, hanging on like
Winter. Marty Robbins, Hank Williams,
Johnny Cash—El Paso, Cheatin’ Heart and
Folsom Prison. The past lives on
Here, but for how long? Sierraville
Edges a huge meadow, lush grasses
Every shade of green and dotted with
Yellow flowers, a painting waiting for a
Canvas. Alongside this glorious
Swale, the highway is shoulderless,
Dangerous, a side path would offer its
Glories to pilgrims and cyclists.
With a bit of guaranteed income, some
Training in agriculture, and prices
Reflecting the true cost of food,
Young people might come here and
Rescue the future.
Crossing Yuba Summit, the flurries
Come again. Dirty ten-foot banks of
Snow line the roadbed. Then, a
Flash of sun (!), the snowflakes
Landing like fireflies on my
Windshield, and, suddenly,
Stopping, patches of blue
Revealing the Sierra Buttes.
Ten minutes later, in
Downieville, it is warm
Again, and Spring is
Triumphant.