In Praise of Yang

It's eighty-degrees in the shade where I sit under a line of cottonwoods. Many years ago, moisture from the roof of a longhouse gave them a start and created a row as straight as the shafts of the arrows sometimes found nearby.

Tribal Camp Lane has changed. Lapping waves are now an interlude to jet skis, motorboats, potbellies and beer flowing like water. Kids figure out new water toys amidst intermittent arguments and laughter and a few of us swim.

To the ospreys floating above, this is nirvana and little has changed.  And even on the ground it is a promised land just down old I-95, where no one wants more.