Almanac of the Douglas Fir by Micheline Maylor This is me, following you up a hill, giving up on the idea of self as one with the universe. We make two tracks here, up slope, trees curtain what’s above. I can’t tell the weather in the Goddess’ eye. Douglas Fir. White birch. A stand of random Mountain Ash. Trunks frame us. They say, this is the land of the Blackfeet, and I believe heat from their fire still burns in this grove. Ladybug. Black fly. Mosquito. Coyote. When I was a child, dream of rabbit, dream of bear. Today, I find you in the parking lot. It isn’t a conspiracy. It’s the lie you told yourself that I see into, unbend. It’s a memory of water, the caress of the current, the frog in the creek outside my window tapping Morse code. You slid into me, a Mobius strip, until the end and beginning meld into one. Two sides one. On the trail, I found bottles, trees, stones. What else have I to declare? Just a river, running at the speed of my blood. A red squirrel has taken flight, but now, it is a hummingbird.