Late May, Pacific Northwest. Mushrooms and sweaters and flannel still. It feels like it’s fall slipping into winter but I am down with that. With a bite in the air like a poodle on your nipple, like a cold toilet seat. We are in the backcountry Lewis and Clark style with natives and small pox and crows the size of canoes. Slugs the likes you haven’t seen. Trees fingering the heavens, owls coming for your cats. Clouds dense as Donegal wool. Greens, a million kinds. But here we are it’s almost June and I’m still taking baths, telling myself when the sun finally does come out there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.