 Thanks to him. Thanks to Chris. Potter Valley poem. The pink-scaled salmon breathes in lilac-scented candlelight in a farmhouse window. The salmon of porcelain flesh faces west, a watermelon dusk. And moon, draining of light, leans through low-woven clouds, scattering above the roadside farmhouse where the salmon swims. On the whitey-namo second-story window sill, he swims beside her bed. And she believes he breathes her dreams of him. Thank you. Northern women come from Mendocino County. My people are the Koyankawi people from the northern Sierra Plumas, Yuba, Butte counties. Northern women. The northern winter woman is the wet and moody one. Her legs embrace naked hard timber. She is the woman who pushes fog inland. Moist brown woman, bent willow woman. The wet winter woman struggles against wind bending her back. She is the whitewater woman who lingers with every storm. Snow-faced woman, wading salmon woman, the fire-building woman. She is the earth-sucking water back into her womb. The woman who is night, whose pulse is the stirring motion of flowing water, where wet women awaken in black forests. Thank you. Kim and I were talking about some of the streams that have been built over here in the city. And to my people, the salmon were essential for our survival. And so I do write about them. Salmon flesh beneath moon, a feast is near. That fish in night sky, going upriver, heading home this acorn time, names his journey, calls him back to beginnings, called back to a soft circle belly, flaming red fire, flesh feeding an October night flight of fish across the frozen sky with skin of stars. I have seen that same star-colored salmon flickering in another river, not named sky, but not far from here. Several nights back, I stopped at that river, and moon gave streaks cut by fish, cutting a silver, splitting a silver ribbon of water, which was, on that particular night, a lean woman body swaying and dancing the river motion beneath moon. Thank you. Streets of Mendocino. They weren't cowboy boots, and the heel, precisely stacked, was more height than I preferred. But the well-cured leather shown both strength and suppleness through the streakless glass luring tourists, which we were not. The boots were the color of a winter river or coffee softened by cream, and the off-season sail made the contoured cow height even more attractive, accomplishing just what a shopkeeper's window display was meant to do. To the tourists, we were a rare attraction on the narrow village sidewalks. We couldn't pass for cigar store Indians decorating the neat row of storefronts that maintain the fishless fishing village. Fog suspended offshore, a violet shadow, a wave of its own, the water shifting, moon pull. The polished hard heel slope from arch to toe, and even though she tried to hide it, the clerk was unaccustomed to our presence, then surprised gladly accepting our payment. No gold nuggets nor gold coins, but green paper, contemporary currency, legitimate. Seagulls squealed and floated. The tide curved the shoreline, a crash and spray, the yawn. The boots weren't a poetry readings. These were boots you would not wear to the mountains. These were inland valley boots, not exactly rain boots, though they fared well over the years. I hadn't worn them in years, but knew of their aloof presence in the closet box or folded beneath the bed. Through many storms, relocations, divorce, and basic neglect, they did not fade. The heel still straight and stacked, slightly worn on the outer edges, could not recall the rhythm of my stepping, leave no prints on my heart. I gather memories breathing distant and faintly in the woven years of past footfalls as I place them in the plastic bag destined for the thrift store. Let us all walk forward. Pepperwood Wind. Dancer of strength, keeper of spirit, your net woman from the womb of the oldest woman, shaker of song, breath of wind, born of sun, leaf-scent company in the house of the grieving widow, kept in the kitchen for seasons until the spirit became sun and wind, clouds and sun. I would have been called a moon worshiper. Oh moon, my friend, thank you for always being there. A thin bone shoulder, shadowed circle, nearly closed eyelid. You offer comfort when comfort is needed. Through cloud cover, marine layer, you always come through. Cradle me in your thin arms, cleanse me in the pond of your full self to birth light while waiting for darkness. I have cried on your shoulders many times, your mirror embracing all of me. Thank you for your enduring friendship, your beauty through oak, redwood or cedar, midnight glean of any river, your snowy grin. Oh moon, you could never be my lover, not that I don't ache for your white bone presence. And though you lift and release me with your rising and receding, such intimacy with whom I have prayed to would undress skin, flesh and bone. My marrow too naked to distinguish itself from you, my friend, fleck of gold, summer's ice, pocked granite. Thank you, and I'll just finish with this one that's called Mountain Song, though it could be called Bay Song, it could be called River Song, it could be called Valley Song, Mountain Song. Blessed mountain, you are my home. Sacred homeland, you are my heart. Blessed heart, you are my truth. Sacred truth, you are the way. Blessed way, you are a circle. Sacred circle, you are a basket. Blessed basket, you weave my life. Sacred life, you are a gift. Thank you.