In the glacier of paradise sleek grottos of ice
refract color and depth. Solid state of matter

shifting into movement beside the fields
of fireweed and purple lupin as water

warms to possibility. Signs of the notched pass
from mountain to sea linger within the nest

of the understory. I would like to say
I am not here for the wagon ruts, but still

water thickened with mosquito larvae
in old wheel lashes stills my tread

until I walk into old growth, blazing
a slender pass of emerald simultaneity

breaking and following a trail along the sludgy
river milky with glacial flour. The tallest

of these trees were harvested for ships masts.
Delicate veils of white yarrow

hold the margins. The Osceola mudflow moved
through the wet channel hurtling three glaciers

whose fingernails scratched along the backs
of the banks of the river as it gained

momentum creating hanging gardens. 
Shelves of rock are festooned with ropy garlands

of cedar roots sipping mist and leeches
gathering in the potholes beside

the maiden fern and sunset orange salmonberry.
Green and White Rivers flowed red—salmon,

cedar shakes, industrial rust, and the russet algae
of heating water. Cross the plain that takes

its name from the act of digging
where the camas once drew the water from the ground

and held it in a fibrous fist of nourishment
forever crossed by tenders and for brief centuries

crossed by soldiers on the Natches pass—
built as the one route of freshwater to salt escape

during a sliver of the Indian Wars. Waterlogged
pyramids and cobblestone obelisks are

tucked in the salal and huckleberry.
Etchings of webbed schooners

marking the places of landing are embedded
in the concrete. I might heed

the call to burn the boats into long welts
of ash to mark the way to the water road

beyond the beachhead of the past,
but I have dipped down from the mountain path

and into the warming shoreline,
which could soon rise to salt

inundating the creeks that feed artesian wells
of remarkable clarity where lanky fringecup

grows in pink health for now. No cooling time,
long and sufficient is the day.

Laura Da’ is a poet and teacher. A lifetime resident of the Pacific Northwest, Da’ studied creative writing at the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her first book, Tributaries, won the 2016 American Book Award, and her latest book, Instruments of the True Measure, won the Washington State Book Award.