Shelter

Sleep beneath a mountain,
and dream of trains and blizzards.
Your traveling companion
will wake you when it's time.

You will see your tent
you've assembled inside this
log cabin, next to a lamp
and a satellite tv.

You'll laugh at your absurdity
of fear--that you needed to
construct one shelter inside of
another. You'll open the
refrigerator and grab what's inside.















I step down onto the asphalt and it is cool in the light evening wind that has picked up tempo. I feel the wind on my bare feet, in my hair, on the crest of my forehead, and on the undersides of my arms. The night looks like day now, sun still high in the air as seven o'clock approaches. Students of mine are playing basketball in the street behind me and to my left, carving out any free space to be kids amongst the snow berms and concrete buildings that still rise above their heads.

I turn to the right, down the slow artery of road that slopes down toward Passage Canal, toward another artery of a more liquid sort, the one that leads to the heart of this ecosystem, Prince William Sound. My hands are in my pockets at first and then they are out, at my side lightly bouncing from front to back. This movement takes place completely on its own, just as the pendulum needs no help once it has been set in motion. As I draw closer to the water, I see Reinaldo Arenas in my thoughts, the persecuted Cuban poet of the 20th century whose biopic Before Night Falls I watched last night. Reinaldo, or rather Javier Bardem in his portrayal, walks on a sidewalk as well, in a shirt similar to mine, surrounded by a hustle and bustle, by women laying with their backs over hoods of cars. It looks warm where he is. It's cool here, and I notice little noise.

When I was living in Eau Claire back in my early 20's I would think of similar movements while walking home with a bag of groceries cradled loosely in one hand--paper, never plastic. I would walk out of Kerm's Grocery with a sack of some produce, chips and salsa, probably a package of Oreo's too. The rectangular bottom of the bag would give just enough in its corners to rest between my arm and ribcage without moving. It would wedge just right and my hand would be free of grasping anything. And although I'm embarrassed to admit it today, I thought of this as the "money" way of walking down the street with a bag of groceries. I told some of my fellow cooks at the "Cam" restaurant about this once. Totally dorky, and so totally me. It just feels good to move the right way.

I near a "t" intersection and turn left. The rail yards stand directly between me and the ocean now. I could take the pedestrian tunnel underneath them, but tonight I feel like staying in full view of the sky. I step around the edges of the last remnants of snow to be melting in the street. A white pickup truck pulls onto the road up ahead, turning towards me. I wave in a style I have adapted over the years, a quick flick of the wrist, two or three fingers out. If you drive a truck and are driving through a rural Alaskan town your hand just seems to do this automatically. Strangely, this is the exact same wave my mom uses as she executes her Buddhist Wisconsin got-my-shit-together smile-beaming walk through life.