The island is shaped like Neverland. It is protected - by water and winds, and only ferries can bring you to it. The ocean is alive with orcas, purple starfish, and glowing algae. The forest still has its wildness, it hasn’t been taken. And there is no body else - it is winter and a stillness is coating everything. The lakes are perfect mirrors, never a ripple or a drop. The trees are holding the silence; they are holding their leaves back in suspense. The only sounds for miles are my boots and my breath. And I can fall asleep on the ground and be safe where no one can wake me. And I can sing out loud and be safe because no one can hear. And I can shed my clothes and be safe because only the ravens will see me, with clumps of moss in both fists, pine needles prick on the skin, and wet fog goosebumps.

My eyelashes grow heavy with mist.

It's dusk. I can hear the sea lions on the beach bellowing from their animal throats, and the roars are coming through the trees. I am following the deer with their tip-toeing hooves that never sink in the mud. I am sinking, down the path that is lined with white feathers. The white feathers slowly turn to bones, which lead me to the tree. The tree with spines tangled into its roots. Circled by dead maple leaves that cover teeth and claws and other things that grew out of animals…