somewhere, on this mountain
Chush Falls—ions charge—thick
at the shoulder
falling
below elbow to bare ooze
a pricked finger bleeding
nearly dry, the creek Whychus.
Why choose Deschutes?
Where the wick fired and knifed 1000 eyes in pines-
scented, of course not
here, in gentlest breeze, blackened trees still moan
and chafe like flies
try to make sense; to mend brittle limbs.
In kinship, we meander among the singed and coiled
in an origami forest—
snake, snail, elk, hawk, two vellum-thin humans
contortionists—
weathering toward something recognizable.
Lodgepole firs, faraway falls the softest whoosh:
a pastel breath lace of newborn snow
sublimity of physics moves from solid to celestial.
Today we call it Eden.
When the Dark-eyed Junco trills amid the wreckage
fantastic and real
my hand slips into yours seams an honest answer.
—
Susan Mason Scott lives in Madison, Indiana and is a recently retired GED mathematics instructor. She participated in Poets Studio at Attic Institute, Portland, Oregon, completed the Poetry Collective at Lighthouse Writers Workshop, Denver, Colorado, and studied with poet Sawnie Morris. She is twice nominated for a 2025 Pushcart Prize. A list of her publications is available at susanmasonscott.com.
