And up through the hills, when I spotted our name
On a street sign in Dayton.
"Your great granddad," said my father.
We are from this place, the wheat fields
and the Columbia.
An overrun cemetery stands, despite the grass and weeds,
and there my great grandmother is the earth the farmers plow.
I had never realized, when I was 8-years old,
that when we abandoned the coastline
we were coming back to the place
where we always belonged.
Where all the stars were named
for us, long before we were born.
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