Queen Charlotte City, British Columbia
June 21, 1989

We have left Louise Island, ride the double-kayak, elated
in cool yellow metal. Our guide has already taught us
to paddle. Exert with the forward stroke through the air.
Then pull backward through waters— saving the effort.

Just lily dip, don’t dig deep. And we glide as if we’d done this
all along. Several bald eagles perch in shadows high in Sitka.
We expect the little ducks with red feet, white wings
to fly on our approach. Instead they dive.

We are surprised it easy to avoid ominous tangled clusters
of kelp. The years are drifting back — we are comfortable
in our silent subject. We’ve synchronized our strokes,
gaze ahead tucked snug.

We rock and bend. A slight wind invades. Our exploration
takes a nervous turn. We’ve known these waves. I, the lookout,
always, take the front. You, steady the rudder, shafts of sun—
hours roll unnoticed. Islands are to circle.

Something will not flood through, is not an issue. Yet,
we endure this speed, light on water lasting like our faith.
So, we steer around another rocky island. Two spotted goats
run after us on little brown hooves bleating, scolding,

Ringing their bells. Laughing, we push off to a tree —
filled place and pull the shiny kayak onto a beach of pebbles.
We lay upon the metal, lean upon the oar. It has been
a fulcrum then, this love.

We abandon the kayak, scramble over stone black, full
of barnacles to moss, ferns thick and good with grace
covered with yielding rust of lichen and fungi. The wood
shavings are soft. We have brought no lunch— only water.

You over me, my eyes close, and you call. Lean back, open,
and feel the day. The light refracts in cedar and spruce.
Brave needles of the sun release and fly.

We feast upon the noontime of our lives.