Frayed twigs and sharpened sticks, used as brushes, awaken narratives. Using these tools, I like sketching dawn to dusk, mimicking traditions of burnt chert, flaked tools, and history inside the earth. I find fossils in the stones surrounding buildings - the footprint of a bird, a fish, a coral shell as tightly furrowed as spring bud.
A knawed willow sometimes smells of wintergreen. Trees perceive us, alter their behavior.
I have seen you, tree, looking at me. Someone's dressed your wound with paint and sand.
Warned, I avoid brownfields and clearcut, parks at night, and open, lonely spaces.
I don’t own a gun, but can shoot one. My brother-in-law's elk hide on the wash line, hung next to a pink bath mat. I think, uncle, said my niece, you shot that mat too?
You must ask questions.
Could I kill for meat? I eat fish instead.
In this dream, a cave contains cedar planks and charcoal ink. Sooty roof rock falls over time, becomes more floor.
I climbed canyon walls into a cliff dwelling, was surprised to find a Korean family. We ate oranges together.
What is brought in is taken out. Blue-green shadows. White firs smelling of citrus.
In Goyang is a cave containing 153 souls. My student in Guro was a mudang. She spoke to the dead. Brush your hair 100 times to make it shine, mother said. Avoid ghosts. I consent, absorb her social distancing.
Pray for mountains and seasons. I don't eat meat. The aroma of chicken wings, of charcoal and fat, seeps from the corner tavern.
Truth and Reconciliation.
Corona vitae is a toxic terror. The number of masks we have discarded kills. Will we always carry carnivore hearts? My mother forgave the disease that ate her.
Whale fall.
Quiets rooms, this quiet mind, which has become so important, so valuable.
