Inside a Gifford Pinchot Forest night  
Denny and I, with his Wasco legs 
Cupping our hands to make an old whistle 
Like the hoot of an owl to settle our minds  
From the fears of the directionless twirl of sky 
Those fires of Warm Springs 
The silence of the river’s falls 
The countless ghosts of oolichan.
 
Upon hearing the tones from our small soft hands 
The deer stand still, freeze in their tracks 
Only the heat of their breath moves 
Their black pool eyes, starless earth sight. 
Like the solemn overstory that extinguishes 
The travelling of stars 
All relativity stilled 
The planet, a jar, hermetically sealed 
Each branch in the maze of Douglas Fir 
Above our heads 
Are old stories still being told anew 
Our voices, with purpose, retell them to each other. 
 
Stories of disappearance 
Stories that burn 
Denny says, “Little Fish, 
You have so many names.” 
And we know all about burning
Such dry kindling, which are our bones 
Denny and I, the last ones 
That will end here with us without anyone knowing 
Just ask the dust. 
 
The forest hides its mirrors in lakes and ponds 
And the stick people dance around their shores 
Denny & I saw our reflections for the first time 
When we took a drink 
Our spirits stained a huckleberry purple