of the rain slapping an abandoned couch along the Cle Elum River.
Sometimes the feeling is lapping; sometimes the feeling
is removed. I wanted laughter. There was none.
The archeologist extracted a femur from a riverbed. Seen from a plane,
its blue curves. When I stepped off the ferry,
the comforting smell of decay.
To lure the fish, we used tiny pieces of Wonder Bread.
Someone asked my forever age.
I said twelve.
I wasn’t sure whether it was coming in or out: the tide.
Lingcod, greenling, eel grass, gobies:
so many names.
To witness sculpins while sitting in a kayak, not quite convinced.
All that is sea. All that is tributary, heading to the sea.
I didn’t set out to believe.
Header photograph © Liz Baronofsky.
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