The whuljootseed word, TSEETS-kah-deeb, “clitoris,” names a little promontory just across on the river’s east bank that refers to a myth in which Mink, a frantically lascivious bumbler, asks his grandmother if he can use her clitoris for bait. There it is! We have the green beach grub on one side of the river and grandmother’s tumescent clitoris on the other.
In springtime Coyote transforms the world. When he opens his crimson eye, the world blooms. The dogwood tree is his sign and his promise that life is greater than death.
Boulders and cobbles were piled beside the ancient clam gardens. On the beach they mark gardens and also pens where fish were herded for capture. More than a century has passed since the gardens were kept and wave action has been constant. Would the patterns survive?
The reason people in India can see the Himalaya again is because of Covid 19. The whole country has shut down; pollution plummeted; skies have cleared. Before us rises a possible future.
The onset and turbulent passage of Seattle’ influenza epidemic matches our present experience, and its history may serve as a route-guide. The "Spanish" Flu orphaned Emmett Watson and Mary McCarthy who, arguably, became writers as a result.
One might wonder why Native stories wished for more rain in damp, dark Seattle, but spring floods signal salmon to return to spawning rivers where people caught them.