John remembers the ways of the Ohlone as he digs for oyster along the shore at Emeryville. Near his dead father’s old fishing shack stood Shellmound Park; a midden of many lifetimes. A mountain of crusty mollusk fused together rose 60 feet above San Francisco Bay with a dance pavilion atop its summit. The dance and the park died with the passage of prohibition in the 1920’s.
The first fly catches her scent in the hot, summer wind. Buzzing his arrival, he scrapes his feet and glories in the Guava juice erupting from her mouth. Death is a strong, sweet thing for those with voracious appetite. Guardians of the Dead leave sticky, spiny footprints tracking her body, their microscopic ears attuned to a tornado of hissing emerging from her last gurgling expiration.