Geography of Love

You have to imagine that everything you love will go somewhere, become something else — a wild plant of some kind that people pull out by the taproot before the crazy bright flower goes to seed and a breeze carries the seed to the neighbors' green yards, or even Canada, where it might have to struggle in green rock canyons (Frazier River), or stately apple orchards (Okenogan Valley), or farther west, traveling in the mud on the scaled talons of an eagle seeking candlefish through the mad scramble of aits and channels (Inside Passage), along with hundreds of other eagles that swarm and shriek at the oily fish, and the great great migration.

See? Now your love is far away.

Small-town native storytellers will tell of it and American fishermen will marvel not even knowing, and you are here in a city garden pulling weeds — damn dandelions everywhere, lawnmowers, workaday daydreams, a breeze.