Coho

There is climbing ivy deep emerald green with splayed and hopeful veins pressed into each leaf creeping t’wards my books. In the fall, when we moved in, I thought my books were the ones taking over this cabin but now four months and countless rainstorms later we see that this was always the ivy’s stomping grounds first. This cabin’s previous tenant told us she used to rip it by the full vine from the walls, the ceiling, the windows, every crevasse where it creeps climbs claws its way in. On stormy nights when the gusts kick up 40 knots roaring from the south the drooping arms of the persistent plant tap, scratch, beat against our windows yet we hardly notice becoming lost also in the chorus of the wind through not only our unique bloom of ivy, but all the spruce, cedar, salmonberry that are our closest neighbours.