Broken by Water

Who hasn’t been broken
by water and those
that take to water?
Praise American

widgeons, the alert covey
they become
in the protected coves
of Yukon Harbor,

each turning tail-up,
bottom feeding at low tide,
tail feathers
agape like hungry beaks.

Praise the delicate grebes
working rougher water
out past the point,
and the heavy-headed

mallards, the three of them
two hens quacking
behind the haughty male.
Praise the kingfisher,

its loneliness,
the high-perched patience
of a Christ
looking down.

Who doesn't break
into tears
or praise or both
when the truck horn blares

and the widgeons spook,
lifting off water
as one
taken to air?

---

Lullaby of the Sea

Inside the blacked-out globe of this night
without the moon, without a hint
of stars, the sea—the Salish Sea—
is the only fact our senses trust.
Its surf, thrumming as soft as our hearts
through sleepless nights, its salts in air
so clean against the reek of debris
in the kelp and seaweed of the wrack.

This skookum night of sea everywhere—
sea in our eyes, our ears, sea in
the shapes our minds name to damp
down fear. This place where land and sea
are nearly one beneath a black dome
sky—how can this be home, our home?

---

My Hermitage

I live on an island
in the Salish Sea
because I love boats—
that's what I say

when asked why I chugged
off the edge of the map
aboard Keats, and how,
deep in life, I stepped

ashore for R & R
and found my lost self
home. Islands are
like shells in the surf

of continental drift—
tumbled, some weathered
for eons, others
still smooth shelters

a hermit might crawl
into to be safe,
a portal he bears everywhere
like a dear gift.

---

Inversion

On sky-heavy mornings like this,
we smell salt in our dreams,
taste brine on our lips
as we breathe, and if we are steeped
in sea matters, we mark
where each star ought to be
on the blank chalkboard of sky
when we rise before dawn to check
anchor; and if we are not wise
in sea ways, we still fix
our eyes on an imagined horizon
for answers, listen
past the invisible for dangers—
water slapping at our hull:
salt-salt-salt.

---

After Morning Squalls

The sun is so bright
right now, my face aches
from squinting. This,
after morning squalls
drove dark cloud onto cloud
and frenzied the waters
of Juan de Fuca.
Now I can see across the Strait,
through Admiralty Inlet,
can even picture
far down Sound
the gleaming cities
that await these full freighters
steaming by. The Olympics,
still caked with ice
and snow, glisten
like a one-and-only truth—
so believable. While
just below these peaks,
there’s a plume of white
smoke rising, tiny Port Townsend
eking out a living.