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  • It’s all I can do, from up here on my mountain. 2
    watch the redwoods bend to the wind, raven building nest, woodpecker infants leaping and falling. River, swollen with steelhead. The Salmon . Spring Wind.
    A red fox lies quiet.
    The fog is in quarrelsome irony with the horizon. Electric guitars. The Wind, dramatic and moody with a penchant for swooshing.

    Our tribe up here in these hills are diminishing. Every week a memorial, every week there is the face of a beloved printed on a piece of paper taped to the front door of the post office.
    Louie says " they are dropping like flies" as he approaches his 86th birthday. Those faces not a merely a face but a part of us, a limb, fingers, a pancreas, a lymph node, an eye.
    Our heart. Our Beginner’s mind. Our Fury and Passion. Our Meaning and Purpose.

    My last conversations with Nick were beside this wood oven at the Land. He, diminutive, darling as only a Nick King could be, speaking of bread and apples, the scent of bay and fire , river and burnt flour like a djinn making smoke and wonder. How the mind can connect to unseen worlds!

    You know, you can't make this stuff up.

    How do we do this dance with loss, we Tribe. I suspect we will hold one another tight, drink homemade wine, dance, curl up, foot tangled with hand, hand tangled with heart, heart tangled with all of us. Child, Oldster, Smoke and Spire. Tangled in the New Paradigm and the Old Ways.

    On Saturday we gather to honor Nick King, the man that saved the Watts Towers who resurrected and introduced heirloom apple trees to Mendocino County. Photographer, Orchardman, Father, Beloved.

    Tipping me hat to you Nick. No mere feat , your life. You. Heroic. Tangling.
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