Monday, November 17, 2008
Sailing upper Puget Sound,
Our rusting ferry threads its way
Among rogue islands scattered
Across the rippled green water,
Passing sudden stone outcroppings
And islands that break the surface by inches.
The dark islands are punctuated
By random flares and points of light.
Plumes of grey smoke rise and drift away.
Under a half-moon, the islands
Look like Orcas bobbing
In the sound, their lighthouses and beacons
Like Cyclops eyes
Warning us to dodge
A network of shoals
And hazards that boats
Are attracted to by momentum
And dumb luck.