I was wet from the ocean spray when I woke, with eagles up above. The tide looked low and the beach opened up. Fallen trees off the bluffs made it feel like we were at the edge of the world.
I go back to the curves of that sea along the beach, shapely as a woman’s hips. To the dark, side street bars and waving aloe stalks, the persistence of salt in the maritime air.
We are trying hard to belong here by collecting what we can, to remember where we’ve been.
We are in the backcountry Lewis and Clark style with natives and small pox and crows the size of canoes.
In some ways the body was just an instrument, one you could play on a street corner for tips. And he had more body left than mind, more body left than soul.