Saginaw Bay & Exploring
Sometimes I am more affected by the absence of something than by its presence. When I look, for example, at tracks in the mud left by a wolf today, I find myself drawing a deep breath, imagining my hands in the tracks, transformed into thick paws with razor-sharp claws, making my way on all fours through the tidal flats. Blood courses through my veins. Hunger has driven me here, to see what creatures have come to feed. I must stave off this gnawing ache in my belly.
I wonder about the wolf… where it came from, where it’s going, what it’s like to live in synchronicity with the land, moving with the rhythms of sun and moon and tide, accepting what life offers in each moment.
I look at the feathered remains of the bald eagle on the forest floor, close my eyes and feel my arms and torso transform into wings, fingers becoming sharp curved talons, eyes narrowing to a piercing gaze. I could spread my wings, take flight, and soar up above the tree-line, spiraling along the thermals, surveying the scene below me, looking for my next meal.
And I wonder what the eagle sees, when looking down upon the humans gathering on the shoreline of Kuiu Island for hikes, or climbing into bright red and yellow chariots to glide across the waters of Saginaw Bay, or standing on the bow of the blue and white ship gliding through Red Bluff Bay.
And I look at the majestic waterfalls, and wonder what it’s like is to be a drop of water gamboling down the cliff with billions of my closest kin, on my way to join the deep salt-water pool below. And as the ship pulls in close, and I bask in the glory of the miracle of water, what of the drops that land on my face? Before I know it they’ve sunk into my skin, becoming a part of me.
