In Your Northwest Coast Dream
for DGL
The moon is a whale's belly
full of salmon, bobbing on waves
that curl and quail overhead. You wake,
pale as a shell on Shoalwater Bay.
Moss dribbles down the altar
where you hold communion with sand,
cup your hands for a chalice
and pray to be born
again a fish from the womb of creation,
pure as the dolphin's song
swelling under your cellist's bow.
You know the words, shape each one
as delicately as the slender stems
of trillium blooming in constellations
above you.
Only the tail of the moon
remains now slapping the tide, and so
with one step inland you return
to daylight. Where you walk, cloisters of cedar
stand watch, and the familiar face of Rainier
dissolves in the Pacific night. Under cover
of trees, relieved yet of flesh, you wait
one moment longer, warmed
by the steady breath of ferns
for earth to tell you your name.
And now, a few images to go with the poem:


This is a picture of Shoalwater Bay in Oregon.
I visited the part in Washington state.


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