Started at the border, crossing down, beauty at baker, the north is un touched, undeveloped. Cold life up here, warms a little as you drop into the valley of tulips. The skagit proves its might often. Cascades and Olympics running parallel as if mirror images. I continue right through the middle. Into the Sound, the scent of sea life develops, simultaneously, trees falling and concrete floods overtake the seagull and salt scent that had existed. As you come into the Town, lakes lay at the foothill of an image backgrounded by the Giant that is Mount Rainier. The needle never grows old, nor the scape, or the people. Further we march, out of the traffic, Tacoma is full of history. Asian and African Americans found this as a safe place years ago. After tac town the mudslide throws us into Olympia, home of the hippies. Hang loose here, its a lot of fun. The Sound comes to a physical end here, yet not mentally. The feeling continues as we ride through towns needing no name yet the land here deserves no less respect. Shades of green, nearing Forrest and dark are rolled through grass over hill after hill yet as I sight them, each is different. Rivers over take farmlands, cows seek higher ground. The south of my home sees beautiful river basin, islands and un told stories. The islands coming down from the San Juan through the sound see splitting of areas. No where else. This feeling. Wet, yes. Let that get you down. Im no where near able to question my love.
Posted on: Fri, 14 Mar 2014 09:21:57 +0000
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