The Rogue

That river, born in hiding, rides across
the deep, broken lava, making waterfalls
and sudden, adolescent turns.
It's the well-loved Rogue, flowing
through the ponderosa, the streams,
scenes of sudden delight, rafting down,
spreading into a serious case,
headed for the Pacific by the time
it leaves the Cascades.

We're off to Ashland today,
over the pass, following the Rogue
down to the pear orchards,
the fat cattle, the beautiful
hippies of the south.  Shakespeare
loves it there. Almost green as England.