Small warblers in steep decline
accompany me (red-breasted nuthatch,
dark eyed junco) sending my heart forward
and my shoulder blades back. Today I choose
the ubiquitous Pacific wren to be my guide.
Round and brown, he hops amid the spikey chaos
of salmon berry, tail upright, body shaking
with what one ornithologist called
the pinnacle of song, though soon I am lost
again, careening in my bright blue
parka along the muddy edges of the field:
intention gone, shoulders burning. Up the coast
in Neskowin the Douglas firs buried in sand
and poking up into the surf zone were not petrified
or turned to stone. They retain their pithy
heartwood and inner bark, enduring berms
and iron dikes, and the shaking of never-
before-encountered muscles and thighs.
Like the scags lying on their sides and littering
this marshland, they are waiting for the earthquake
that will bury or release them, sealing the cycle.
Photo by Sandi Mager on Unsplash
