No hyperbolic poet could express
How wet and muddy this country is.
Endless drips from big leaf maple trees,
(Branches in lichen, bare of leaves)
Fill the puddle-ditch beside the way
Slippery with smashed-down maple-leaf clay.

Bury your hand in the tree-trunk’s moss,
As you slide with the ground— mud over your socks —
On the path to the creek where the Alders lay
Themselves as bridges, soon washed away —
It’s never the same from day to day.

Soft you can hear it, after each step,
A thousand little rivers suddenly drip
Through the stalks of the blackberries fallen to ground—
Then softly departs the multitudinous sound.

How high are the clouds over our heads?
Just at the tree tops their blanket is spread —
Snagged on the tree tops, caught there to stay
Hung on the cedars, a ceiling of grey,
So it never will ever stop raining here,
Though other things change from year to year,
Trees rot and paths wash away, this will remain
It will never here, ever here, cease to rain.