I know as if every backroad I’ve explored in this life is backroad to another larger miraculous enchanted life – but it wasn’t life that was any different. I was the same adventurous one – seeking only what the land could tell me – sleeping with my ear to her soft earth. Her dust traveling into my head with all of the tiny pieces of ancient memory. I know every one of those particles as if they are the vast wildernesses where they came from. I’ve been inside of the pinecone. Her sappy scent has flavored my meals. I taste her sticking to my teeth my teeth as if my teeth are but fossils, small stones.

And I’ll sleep with a stone beneath my pillow, until the pillow turns over into a sail and lightens into a frail flag a feather. I am not lost at the sea of dream. I know where I am. I know each place on the map of memory that wakes to the next place and the next place. I’ve been all of there. It doesn’t look the same. I am not lost – yet I cannot find my way back.

There is a giant emerald lake beyond a little mining town in the high Rockies. When you go way way out on the water to it’s farthest edge it overlooks the San Francisco Bay. I know. I’ve been there.

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