a day on the ferry

9am to 9pm; Anacortes to the San Juan Islands and back.

The weather is turning and so are the tides. When I’m wary of the waves I remember that the destination is fixed. And that the waves are what color the experience.

I saw red, but behind the treeline.
Now I’ve seen the sun rise bright and humble
and I’ve seen it set, pulsating and vindictive.
All of this on a southbound train (inside lights dimmed),
embedded in and running through the northeastern body of this country.
While I watch through the windows I imagine that the other passengers can hear the sounds that are lapping at my brain in flaming rings.

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