I was sitting in the left hand turn lane at 8:30 at night, right
next to my building, almost home, just waiting to turn the corner, listening to
the blinker, when the woman with the tomahawk caught my eye. White, middle-aged, short blond hair, plumpish,
dressed in ¾-length navy slacks and a red cardigan. She looked like she could be going to the
church social, but here she was crossing the coast highway in the evening. Hardly anyone walks here on the coast road even
in broad daylight, and no one walks at night.
Least of all women carrying tomahawks.
I was so tired and everything is so disorienting to me here,
I almost let it go by, but then I thought, “Was that really a tomahawk?” I looked again more closely. It was definitely a bone handle, like an
antler, and there were definitely feathers sticking out from the end of
it. Maybe it was more of a ceremonial
feather-duster, cut-through-the-thickness of ridiculousness, shamanic wand kind
of thing. But it was definitely an
antler with feathers. She was dressed
like she could be carrying a pie across the street to the neighbor.
Maybe she was going home too, returning from the ceremony. Her walk was brisk and
purposeful.
The moon shone. The
pine trees stood dark against the sky.
The air was cool. The ocean
glowed at the end of the block.
The light turned green, and I drove home in wonder.
