The Narrowness of Stories

 
 I dreamed of mudslides shrinking Lincoln Park.
 A crumbled cottage made of stones. 
 Two eagles — too proud to scavenge
 spawned-out salmon choking in the foam.
  
 Dogs tore meat from a beachbound seal.
 A Jamestown Chief spit on a car – 
 The next best thing 
          he squeezed through sour teeth
 to wishing on a star.
  
 What’s history to the mud, anyway?
 What’s tradition to the sea?
 An upturned trash can on the beach –
 another homeless camp along the street.
  
 The Cascades turned their back on me
 and hid thunder from the skies.
 Olympic floods 
           just like that 
 choked to runnels.
 Tribal rage gone saturnine. 

2 thoughts on “The Narrowness of Stories”

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