by Francis Marion
The Burning Platform
I could here the roar of the Canoe River and its tributaries as they made their descent hundreds of feet below me. I couldn’t see them from the logging road we were on but their flight was so steep and so rapid that it filled the valley with mist and noise as the various creeks and the river itself made the first leg of their inevitable journey south and west to the Pacific. The road and surrounding vegetation were damp as the mist from the creek filled the air, climbing upwards with the tips of giant spruce and pine towards the ridges that birthed the torrent below while simultaneously mingling with the sun and creating hues of yellow, blue and purple in the spaces between the trees and the sky. Standing on the road I rubbed the sleep from my eyes as the moisture slipped past my nostrils, filled my lungs and cooled my skin. Buzzard sat next to the truck and camper in a lawn chair glassing white dots on the upper ridges of the valley that surrounded it all.