Hunter’s Moon Walk

We walk west under a hunter’s moon.

I search the morning sky for the comet

that won’t pass through these parts again

for 80,000 years.

Forty-thousand years ago,

Neanderthals were making art in caves.

Will any human sit around a campfire

to see this comet upon its return?

Unlikely, I think.

I once met a homeless man

who lived in a cave,

on Nesika Beach,

his domicile

carved from a sandy cliff.

I built him a driftwood fort

for better accommodations.

He invited me to share his fire.

We pass deflated Halloween decorations,

ghosts, goblins and witches,

looking like dead soldiers

commanded by the Masters of War.

Two raccoons hunchback across the trail.

They stop and turn our direction.

Elmer the husky rears like a stallion

and almost pulls me over.

We pass the picnic table

where a young homeless man

often sits under a cedar,

in silence, in darkness.

He’s not there.

Below us, the amusement park

rises not bold and stark,

but bleak and bright, (yes, a strange dichotomy)

lit up by lights,

prison illumination,

from sentinel towers

erected to dissuade

the homeless from camping

in the willows near the river.

The towers even talk,

warnings in monotone,

one-syllable words.

A man wearing a hoodie

and plaid pajama bottoms

approaches.

I say good morning

and catch a glimpse

of Portland’s skyline blinking.

The man says nothing.

Elmer and I continue on our way,

out of the park,

past a series of derelict cars,

homes for the homeless,

the “Bum Brigade”

as a resident described it

to me one morning.

Will I ever take a walk

in the morning with Elmer

and not think about the homeless?