Some things come easy, after all
after this hard year
we skiff past westside capes
bare cliffs like the stone paws
of mountainous sentinel lions.
Past Cape Kuliuk and Cape Ugat,
past places mapped
by VHF call—Bartenders, Broken Point,
Noisy Island, Trap 6, Bear Gardens
to Uganik Island,
green all the way to the beach
and wild roses all the way up.
A weathered red cabin with summer-filled windows,
beach gardens growing taller than the kids.
Time and daylight enough
for projects of whimsy—pink outhouses, buoy swings,
napping cabins and salmonberry bushes pruned
into head-high mazes.
When the rain starts
we sit on the porch eating salmon
pulled straight from the smoker,
muffins made with yesterday’s oatmeal.
We warm our hands
around hot coffee in old mugs, each one a story
and between the stories, talk of fishing and weather.
Always talking fishing.
Later, by a driftwood fire,
its easy heat reminds you
how old friendships return you
to yourself,
how readily we believe
we’ll return next season
our socks waiting in the drawer,
the dishes by the sink.
