Memories of Newberg

the cloud of steam rises continuously,
a tribute to the stench of the pulp mill,
as if even the vented vapor could not delay flight.

a twin engine fixed wing plane joins the steam over
the lazy patchwork of houses, farmland and small shops.
a hot air balloon lifts tourists in the distance.

cars crawl east and west through a bottle neck of unfortunate
road planning conceived before the first stop light was installed--
oh, what an event that was! the fanfare! the gossip!

telltale vestiges of suburban sprawl begin to take their toll with
the rise of big ugly square houses, super-sized box stores and
ubiquitous fast food pads. Consumerism is laying waste to dying

charm, but not completely, as in the hills which cradle its northeast
borders, trees still rise up in the fading morning mist, surely
preserving the trails I once hiked as a boy.

the Willamette River carves out its path in the south of the city,
no more swimmable or potable now, than thirty years ago,
but perfect for the annual summer boat races.

7 April 2007 by Glen Alan Woods