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.