Sometimes I go to Pine River 
to let go of what’s already gone 
skip stones by the rust of the sawmill 
as the water moves steadily on.  
The foam at the foot of the pilings 
goes round like a head of dark beer 
the trout must be drunk on the moment 
with no thoughts of yesterday near.

My dad kept a place on Pine River 
years after ma passed away 
he worked til they shuttered the sawmill 
then took to fishing all day.
When he died I went through his dresser 
and sat with a picture I found 
of a man looking out at a white water 
with his girl when her hair was still brown.  

Chorus
Pine River, flow on, go down to the sea,
Pine River, take on, all these pieces of me.
Won't you show them the shells at low tide
where the boats all rest to one side
under skies with nothing to hide.

Annie lived in Port Canyon  
selling bowls she threw on a wheel  
At dusk we’d talk by the river 
on a porch near a burgundy field.
I fell for the flow of her laughter 
and the flowers round Annie’s back door 
I cried when she left for another 
I don’t go to Port Canyon no more.

Chorus
Pine River, flow on, go down to the sea.
Pine River, take on, all these pieces of me.
Won't you show them the shells at low tide
where the boats all rest to one side,
under skies with nothing to hide.

A kid lives across from my garden 
his parents fight every night 
so he’d roam with a dog he called Hobo 
that he loved with all of his might. 
Heard the brakes and bump last Sunday 
there was nothing no one could do
now that kid sits alone with a collar 
staring a hole in his shoe. 
Think I’ll take him down to Pine River 
and trade up the reasons why 
for a dozen good stones at the sawmill 
to skip on the mirror of the sky.  

Chorus
Pine River, flow on, go down to the sea.
Pine River, take on, all these pieces of me.
Won't you show them the shells at low tide
where the boats  all rest to one side,
under skies with nothing to hide.

Photo: Irina Iriser, pexels.com