In the early fall, the fog drifts in from a western sea,
Climbs the shoulders of the mountains along the shore,
Slips down their slopes and glides
Along the hills that border the valley,
Then slides slowly out over the valley and covers the sun.

In the late fall, the rains come to Oregon.
Leaves drift in the wind and branches of trees
Stand black against a gray sky;
And the rain, the silver rain, falls gently on the land.
The rains come to Oregon in the late fall.

The sky is gray and damp through long winters.
Sometimes snow comes and the land lies white and long.
Then the trees and brush trace their strange geometry
Against a brighter cloth. And when the cold clamps down
Hard upon the land, what sun comes through is thin and long
And casts black shadows on the ground.

In the early spring, the land is touched with green
Which grows and spreads until the land leaps
With green and green and green. There is the green,
The emerald green of grass, the burgeoning green
Of berry vine, the long-hued green of fir.

The summer fills the air with sun the whole day long.
The summer sun takes the day in its grip and holds it,
Squeezes it, drains from it the last sweet drop of light.
The summer sun is long upon the land
And in the early fall, the fog drifts in.

How many years, how many centuries, how many ages
Did the fog drift in from a western sea, did the rains fall,
Did the green spread, did the crystal sun burn down
Before man stepped here? Who knows? Who can count the stars?
Then the land lay quiet under the hand of God.

They came. When? Who knows? They came
From somewhere strange (or were they placed here
By the other hand of God, indigenous, native to the land
They would never serve, merely inhabit,
While time and another people spelled their doom,
A doom as inevitable and irrevocable as the winter rain).

They raised no cities, laid out no roads, turned up no earth
For seed, yoked no cattle. They took no land,
But dwelt upon it, taking from it their needs, giving it
Nothing for they had nothing to give.
Sometimes they burned the forests down.

How long did they stay, taking their small needs,
Giving the nothing they had to give? Who knows?
And still the fog drifted in from the sea,
The rains came, the spring green, and the long hot sun of summer.
And the people lived in the other hand of God.