Quietly Hoped, a visual poem by Drew Myron
they greeted me,
the canopy of cedars —
and quietly hoped.
The first forest fire of the season has ignited the Columbia River Gorge National Scenic Area — where I live.
As water jets fly overhead and smoke fills the hot box of July, we sit and stew and watch, wait, pray.
This is not new. In Oregon, and the western U.S., every summer is fraught.
In 2017, the Eagle Creek Fire destroyed 50,000 acres, threatened homes, closed major roadways for miles, and smoldered for three months. The fire was started by a teenager lighting firecrakers in the forest.
In 2018, multiple fires raced to the east of us, in Wasco and Sherman counties, burning hot and fast with a force that consumed wheat crops, homes, and took the life of a farmer as he tried to save his neighbor’s land. Over two months, the fires burned nearly 250,000 acres.
Hot weather, driving wind, and dry land is a potent combination, and increasingly common. Grim is the new normal.
But you know this. You’ve seen the news. Maybe you’ve driven past a matchstick forest with scorched understory. Or you’ve lived through an evacuation, rushing to pack your history and your fear. Or maybe you’ve been safe from danger but your neighbhorhood filled with smoke, as you secured every window and door to keep your family safe.
The world is hot, dry, overwrought.
I don’t know what to do. Powerless, I pace the house watching the smoke grow. I refresh my web browser for the latest news. I hear the planes jet back and forth, carting water to quell the fire. Restless, I try to read but cannot settle.
We are safe, we are not in the line of fire, and I am grateful.
Still, a fire rattles. By instinct, I reach for pen and paper. I erase words to find meaning in the quiet calm of making.
Note: Erasure poem and images were salvaged from “Saving Forests" which appeared in the May 2022 edition of National Geographic.
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The world turns on words, please read & write.
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