mist

a place called klamath. up in the northwest where the redwoods make everything quiet. on a misty day i walked on a grey beach, with white sands and silver water. in the mist was a sweat lodge made entirely with wood, right down to the fixtures. only a row of nails, hammered into the crossbeam were metal; a nod to modernity. i wondered what would hang from those nails, perhaps fish to be smoked. later, in a tiny town of one store, one bar and one diner, i ate breakfast and asked a 12 year old waitress about bears. 'sure' she said. 'hang 'round that river long enough, you're gonna see a whole bunch of stuff.' she was a ninety year old woman trapped in that little girl. i tipped heavily and left, forgetting, and losing forever a favourite hat on the seat by the window of that diner. if you're ever there, tell them it's yours and that you're there to claim it. i don't mind.