At 5am the Columbia River Gorge is mostly in darkness.
Returned to an earlier state.
But here and there the black is specked with lights
Driven by generators and engines, that assure us that we own the night
And that we control the darkness. That the gorge is ours.
But the fire-blackened hills and the tang in the morning air tell a different story,
Of how our control is an illusion,
And how we have been, and will be, here only a brief time,
And that our preoccupations don’t matter,
When cast against an enormous darkness.