Eagles circle, land on a cedar.
Their chirping punctuates the sound of
jade-colored water from Japan
slurping at mossy rocks below.
My step bounces on roots and spongy sphagnum moss.
A gulp of salty air fills my lungs.
Wind-twisted branches block my view
of Tatoosh Island, lonely guardian of the north Pacific.
From this corner-cliff Makah canoe-hunters watched for Gray whales
and saw San Juan de Fuca’s fleet of Mexican map-makers enter the straight.
Later, Captain James Cook, flattered by the idea of an entrance, a break in the coastline, a passage
saw what he was looking for and named it so.
European intruders would take everything from the whale hunters,
except this small corner lot that guards an entrance, and a nation.
Sheer drop-offs, without rails, speak to accidents,
Twenty-seven years ago I ran away from the
northern Boreal forest of my youth.
I can go no further than where I stand today.
The eagles and water sing me a lullaby.