by Frances Klein Stevo/Unsplash At five I hid in the back lot among cedars brushing fanned branches against the top of the water, rivulets trickling through rocks and rushes, moss offering a cushioned seat on which I would live my whole life, I thought then, there among fireweed and forget-me-not, among slug trail and raven call, under the low dome of clouds, I would survive on the salmonberries that swam along the bank, orange and magenta explosions, on the sour stalks of rh