Small warblers in steep declineaccompany me (red-breasted nuthatch,dark eyed junco) sending my heart forwardand my shoulder blades back. Today I choosethe ubiquitous Pacific wren to be my guide.
Round and brown, he hops amid the spikey chaosof salmon berry, tail upright, body shakingwith what one ornithologist calledthe pinnacle of song, though soon I am lostagain, careening in my bright blueparka along the muddy edges of the field:
intention gone, shoulders burning. Up the coastin Neskowin the Douglas firs buried in sandand poking up into the surf zone were not petrifiedor turned to stone. They retain their pithyheartwood and inner bark, enduring bermsand iron dikes, and the shaking of never-before-encountered muscles and thighs.
Like the scags lying on their sides and litteringthis marshland, they are waiting for the earthquakethat will bury or release them, sealing the cycle.
Photo by Sandi Mager on Unsplash