In Praise of Yang

 

I’m sitting in eighty-degree shade under cottonwoods in a line where moisture from the roof of a longhouse once gave them their start. Tribal Camp Lane looks a lot different than back then.

 

Lapping wave are now just an interlude to jet skis, motor boats and lots of alcohol. Pot bellies, laughter and kids figuring out the latest water devices and a few of us swimming.

 

When I sit back and take it all in, I see ospreys floating above nirvana. A promised land that’s just down I-95 and no one wants more.