Near the Dosewallips River,
named for a man in Twana myth

who was changed into a mountain
at its headwaters,

the forest wraps itself
around us like the wet fur

of a bear, allowing only slices
of sunlight through the trees.

During the day we scavenge
enough dry wood to make a fire,

and that evening trout
fried on a skillet warms us,

body and soul. No sunset,
just a brief waning of the light.

We slide into our sleeping bags,
swallowed by the dark,

and dream that we are rivers,
that we are mountains.