I was born to a land that suits me well. The land of the Pacific Northwest.

It is home. It is the land I live with.

It is Douglas Fir, Western Red Cedar and Alder. It is salal, red flowering currant and thimbleberry. It is skunk cabbage and sword fern. It is vine maple. It is Madrone.

It is salt water, the rocky shore and the sandy beach. It is the anemone and the sea star. It is bull kelp and rockweed. It is the surf of the open ocean. It is the quiet lapping of waves in the islands. It is salmon. It is the Pacific.

It is the snow capped volcanoes to the east and the rocky ridges below them. It is the wildflowers in the alpine meadows. It is snowfall that is measured in feet.

It is the Robin, the Chickadee and the Junco. It is the first Swainson’s Thrush singing in the spring. It is the cry of the Red-Tailed hawk. It is the grebes, the cormorants and the snow geese. It is the gulls.

It is the rain, the fog, and the drizzle. It is lowland snowfall and the slush that follows. It is the gray sky. It is the sun’s warmth when the clouds open up.

It is the kale in the winter garden. It is strawberries, raspberries and wild blackberries.

This is what I was born of. It is in my bones, my blood, in every cell of my being. It is home.

Chuckanut Bay