COÖRDINATES

3 2 Y C O Ö R D I N A T E S S A N D R A M c P H E R S O N Zayante latitude 37\ 02% 53& N, longitude 122\ 04% 05& W Bean latitude 37\ 03% 05& N, longitude 122\ 03% 41& W Ferndell latitude 37\ 03% 5& N, longitude 122\ 05% 42& W A favorite spot – and I could feel it barefoot – The confluence of the Bean and the Zayante. There was a third stream there – A waterfall where Ferndell Springs Jumped o√. Why three? Why not, the tipped earth said. Downstream meant San Lorenzo. And I could map it with my toes. The three psychologies of water – Stones, sand, and precipice. There are more, of course. Sixteen, When the woman Of water comes of age. Because that means a kiss, a pinch. Just ask the crawdad, And my conscious toes. Hemetca mukurma, sii sayyan-ta – One woman, water at the heel. It was safe to go there As a girl – or as Ohlone woman. Hiked many times: that nexus To her gravesite, lost 3 3 R Now among the biggest sempervirens, ‘‘The Neck-Breaker.’’ We were taken to its burly base, too big to be a foot (The trees did have names), Which wouldn’t be incensed If, in prayer, you didn’t kneel . . . With every stream I now expected to see the great Rio Buenaventura; and Carson hurried eagerly to search . . . The burned-out, burn-hearted, on-living tent Of a surveyor’s redwood Pre-statehood that stood In the right-of-way Of the lengthy shortest flow from coast to coast. Longitude 121\ 49% 52& – The maps continually veined it in their time. Day after day – thinking he had found it With every new stream until, like me he abandoned all idea Of its existence . . . Frémont and scouts camped there; inside the tree was coziest. Later the cut-in domestic shelf. Step-downs: tangible beaver cuttings, cartographers’ Mis-measurements, oh finally myth. The dreaded vast interior lake, Whose bitter waters brought us arid disappointment . . . But, now, you can feel Her knowing health, and when the time came Who carried her to burial? Long gray-haired rapids. Each twist counted by a Being Everywhere. Cool the fish-skin of your shins. Climb up-canyon, arms through Boughs, then grip Flights of roots, those ancients, wrangling, 3 4 Y Young ones wriggling out of du√y mudstone (As Mars, Earth’s co-chair, has). She was the single one. Found herself this place: beach, fish, favorite acorns. As in love, loosening its bindings, it happens That in place somebody else comes along – In this case A learning little girl, her toughened feet. Singing for spirits, playing fossil games . . . Knitting, I’d squint up the black-green-sungold Knitted canopy, tell minnows from tadpoles, recount Dogwood to madrone. Peoples’ pebbles. To be a pebble’s person. A favorite spot – and I could feel it barefoot – The confluence of the Bean and the Zayante. There was a third steam there, A waterfall. Why three? Doesn’t everyone ask the crawdad? Kuksu, the confluence murmured, purling over shells and sharks’ teeth. Last woman ever there. Muwékma, la gente, the people. A place-name for it? ‘‘My fill of,’’ said the place, Never having had to have it. Note: ‘‘The very last of the Zayante people was a woman who lived for many years beside Zayante Creek. When she died in 1934 she was buried somewhere among the giant redwoods . . . Her grave, like her people, is lost now.’’ ...