Monday, October 31, 2011


     It’s Halloween in a quiet space where the eve is marked only by the orange of the setting sun. There is no one here where I am camped, over the ancient site of a band of Salish. The ephemeral clouds ghosting the creek assume dream forms as I bend far out over darkening ripples where fish surface and insects light.  Just where the fresh water flows into the saltier sea, another slap and roll of bright rings leads my eye to what the heron has already spied.  A trout rises, disturbing the wavering ghosts fishing in deep water.