The Oregon Veil

It is hammering on Oregon,
In the bone-dry breadcrumb county of Jackson,
Fishbowl valley engulfed in mountains.
Gravel wet like dogs, barking in barbed-wire kennels.
All damn day, all night those dogs.
I can’t hear them above the heartbreaking smell
Of God’s hammer and liquid nails.
In Oregon, it takes an hour to travel a mile.
Mudslides occur pretty frequently.
Just going home we are in great peril.
For father, it’s just one more farewell.
One more leap across the Devil’s Churn.
One more blue-and-red swarm
Of cop cars crawling our neighborhood.
I wouldn’t dare rasp the screen door,
For outside the streets smell like Oregon:
Like a river in a mountain, smoky and warm.
Through the veil I think he’s the cause.
I won’t know for four years more.