Harvest

Born in the snow-capped Cascade Ranges a timid junior river sings its song. A voice of loneliness, a sad and tearful longing, cool waters burble through the valley, the Snoqualmie. And, as it's welcomed near the town of sleepy settlers, it passes fields of berries, flashing purple baubles. Today the harvest may begin as sunrise beckons, a windswept scene brings tones of shade onto the green. From rocky gorges a bright river has descended, from grandeur of beyondness it has plunged, a death-defying act, past silent boulders to slow its journey to meander while it dreams. Ramshackle huts now stir amidst the morning dew, a hundred baskets carried out to frosty bushes. Lethargic voices bark commands to buzzing children, but soon the silence of the valley will return. So that the river can resume its joyful song.