Strands of gray-green Ramalina lichen, torn treetop lace, fall at my feet. I crane my neck backward, scan the sky. Only the swaying spruce and Douglas fir, the crash of surf seven hundred fifty feet below, the distant peeping calls of bald eagles.
I would drape myself in western sword fern, weave for myself a beard of moss and liverwort, exhale mist and sneeze sea spray. I would curl myself into the fallen hemlock, insinuate myself into the vertical root walls of downed cedar, I would send my component amoeboid cells to ease into the landscape whole.
The impossible blue green sea, and bright eyes pop out of it. I slip on algae-slicked rock, fall hard. Instructions from the world: sit here. Orange sea star sleeps at sunset.
Woodpecker drums on mushroom-scented snag. Staircases of white bracket fungus. Logs sawn to clear the trail: the smell of my grandfather’s workbench. Peer close at the disheveling bark.
It is the lichen’s lesson, and the kelp’s: hold fast. Hold fast.