Pilgrimage

When I get to the Redwoods, I’ll look for her clapboard home above a sea-lion rookery. I will seek out her twelve-year-old Ford truck, her briny patch of hand-reared garden, her small surf-riding boat. She’s native, she taught me a Klamath-Modoc hunting prayer: “I want you to know, that a hungry man has killed you. We will meet once more, for you are my brother.” I knew her by her seasoning. The sheriff reported her, `missing in transit.’ Maybe she went off with that s.o.b. jailbird who twice tried to kill her. I’ll take the back roads, getting lost until I reach the ocean. When I get to Crescent City, I will sit by the harbor and watch the sea lions; savoring their deep throated funk. I will maybe say a hunting prayer; a self-hunting prayer.