Seven years ago I lived in the mist and rain of the Olympic Peninsula to walk where wild things walked and lay upon the moss though a spider sunk into my soft stomach. It only hurt momentarily, and regardless, it is never safe to be where it seems safest, where lightning would never touch, waves, could never crash in the long dark of winter- never the crackling cold the moment-stilled heart though days pass. Truth is my hair has been standing on end since I was born from the shock but I comb it smooth and lay across another’s shoulder like a cloak and walking again into the quiet of the Cascades or the Hoh maybe I will find a big, black bear and not be reminded how any moment the sky may fall like hers did unexpected and violent, maybe she was afraid, I keep wondering. I, am sharp flint of ebon eye facing bear, am rock of trembling, St. Helens/ could blow could sleep instead, for awhile peaceful as flowers grow bright upon the back. I think of my tree that is only memory now, how Magdalena strong and twisted could lean into the cold and wild storms, how memory is the willowy heart/ a captured softness to put in a box with her gray eyes and my father’s calloused hands.