At the estuary watching the calm tides shift inside the bay. The steely waters placid under the mist. Night Marchers sleep in the crags between the razorback cliffs, waiting for the new moon to make the walk to sacred places. Each lava rock tail from the mountain leading to the sea an indication of ancient land trusts. At this turning point in the coast a newer journey begins for the traveler as true North. Verdant valleys hide hardships, and forbidden waterfalls hide the dead. There is an altar behind me. It’s sits under hala leaves. The path here is worn, a single track across the small clearing. The fish pond has been restored, but the old single wall cottage is long gone. The beach across this brackish meeting point seems so close. The thick tree line and empty sand imply serenity. But I know better. I’m a visitor, a trespasser, and I am being watched quietly. As the mist continues to cover the land I stand above the river mouth aware of the darkening shadows of the forest behind me.