My machete drips
Green foam
My boots crush pulp of
Devil’s club, fireweed,
Roses, elderberry,
Pushki spraying sap,
Salmonberries.
From below,
The new mountain path
Winds up slow.
I rest my juice-covered arms.
The sea is pinned taut.
Chest-high green
Slopes double black
To a wall of spruce.
An eagle
A tiny prick of black and white
Below us, above the bay.
Flies stick to my machete.
Stilled, I turn to again.
Here, we gather wrack
From an ancient
Tide.
Originally appeared in Hawk & Handsaw: Journal of Creative Sustainability