Port Ludlow, Washington

(for Al and Terri Wolf)

I head down the path, laptop in tow,
to get some work done on an afternoon
when my hometown two states south

broils under mid-July heat. But here,
on the sub deck, some 30 degrees cooler,
I gaze out at the head of the Hood Canal

toward a thickly forested island that looks
to be a hearty stone’s throw across
the gray-green water. So close I can see

driftwood on the beach, count the pines
that nestle just above the high tide line,
as I look to the deep channel for subs

like the one we saw yesterday as our
hosts drove us to their home. We marveled
at the whopper of a Loch Ness monster,

tall neck outstretched above its dark back,
churning its way toward the Hood Canal
bridge, traffic stopped, our vehicle first

in line. Terri and Al bemoaned the
25-minute wait, but Cathy and I,
first-time visitors to see our friends

who’ve happily relocated in the Pacific
Northwest, emerged from the car to
stand in whipping wind and chart

the submarine’s approach, while before
us, the bridge parted like a Biblical sea
to allow the great beast’s passage.

Today I sit on a cushy sofa on Al’s sub
deck that he carved between ferns and
pines below their house, looking for subs—

which are not evident this afternoon,
though tufts of dandelion circle like
friendly gnats, and silhouettes of birds

do-si-do overhead as swirling cloud
scrawls lazily drift in wistful patterns
against the ever-changing blue sky

backdrop—aware that I am taking in
a tiny fraction of the world, that so
much remains unseen, so much I will

never perceive or understand,
which the birdsounds remind me
is perfectly all right—that, in fact,

it’s exactly as it should be.