(between Kingston and Edmonds, Washington)

Today you walk on
while, underneath you,
the four- and two-wheeled ones

drive onto the thrumming deck,
but you and your friends head
up the long, elevated corridor

where dozens of passengers make
their way to long bench seats
or small tables, or to the galley

for decent coffee because this is
the Pacific Northwest, after all,
where the bad stuff is forbidden.

You take a seat with your friends
who, though recent transplants, seem
rooted here like venerable pines,

who are taking you to cruise
the abundant farmers’ market
across the water, followed

by breakfast and another ride back.
But for now you’re impersonating
a cog in one of 21 ferries that

chug across the Puget Sound
46 times a day, 322 trips a week,
through innumerable gray

mornings like this one. Like
the Harley riders on the deck
below, and the young parents

with little kids cavorting on deck,
you settle in, reflecting on the depth
and narrowness of this navigable

inlet of ocean, this estuary fed
by freshwater rivers and streams,
the creatures that make their homes

in and on and high above the water.
You, like other visitors from landlocked
locales. You who have been granted

this moment to rise from your seat,
step outside into the brisk breath
of the sea and inhale thirstily,

filling your grateful, jubilant lungs.

•••

(for Terri and Al Wolf, with my thanks for their hospitality)