Every night I make my way home from town, via a local trail that navigates the zig-zag barriers between private properties, (somewhat makeshift paths like those made from cracks in ice, or lightning shapes through concrete).
6 miles through the woods in the dark (ceder, alder, and sword ferns are black memories of themselves : silhouetted arms that I watch reach over me) until I reach a small valley that separates me from my home.
Mowed and flattened, little planes often land and take flight from this tiny strip of field: one of the mansions looking down into the valley has a giant garage that holds these propellared insects.
I could follow the trail and it would eventually take me, in a roundabout, hound-infested sort of way up to my house, but instead I cross through the valley, turning off all my light gear so as not to be caught tresspassing. When I step out onto the well manicured grass, the sky suddenly opens up, and the Milky Way is close and bright, the North Star is like a beacon; somehow holding the memories of the long-dead who once navigated by its position in the sky.
Other shapes fill the black : clouds that pulse from the spotlight from the International Airport situated in another valley nearby - owls on silent wings - and then the manic laughter of Coyotes at my heels when I’m far enough away that they come out and sing their terrible songs.
Waking to write, and watch Jack Frost work his winter touch.
In Nature we see there is no story, that every legend, fable, myth is desperate.
Sometimes I wake up hopeful in the morning.
My people call...
Flashcards. New schema for new territory.
After the musk and scent of sweat and desperate breath...
Somedays you either laugh or cry unintentionally.
The lull of Salish swaying below me.
I live in a beautiful little corner on the blue planet.