Grace Grace

I compare the volcano on Unalaska to the breasts of a sleeping woman, covered with grass, the fog drawn up around her, breathing as she sleeps, warm, warm, here in the cold. Here in the cold, in the fog, in the wind, we hold on to the edges of her quilt. We are in love with her, this woman in the fog, and feel that we live here only with her blessing. Here we plant our gardens; here, at low tide, we gather sea urchins and sea weed; here we visit our ancestors in the caves of her sea cliffs. Here we look at each other, pitifully in love, and we do not have to ask each other why we stay.