Just south of Cannon Beach North
on the river’s opposite shore
our desperate companion towers
over the bank of the Methow.
Five years of hellish high water
have stripped the remaining soil
from the ponderous mass of roots
now almost entirely exposed,
coiled gray like a faded woodcut
of Medusa’s serpentine locks.
From afar we cannot fathom
how her bole remains erect.
Though miraculous floodwaters
might well restore her foundation
with gravel and mudpack silt,
don’t expect her to hold her breath.
We all just bide the deathwatch
of our once-hale and vital friend,
grieve piecemeal at each drive past,
her end, when it comes, some relief.