I am that fourth day on which God created the Birds and stuff.
In a matter of only a few days, the lively fireweed stalks that had once surrounded our campsite nodded their goodbyes, and were gone.
The Terns also have passed, moving on in their 20000 mile roadtrip from pole to pole. I waved back and threw a pine-cone after their car to Christen their trip. I'd love to go with them, from the arctic to the antarctic, only to turn and do the reverse.
the seagulls, though, still flock to the mouth of the river, swooping and diving like windshield-wipers. at the steady flow of fishheads and gurry that the canneries did not want.
the run that had me fishing 15 days strait has ended. The Washington Loggers, who only fish the peak and already pulled their boats. these few stand proud and lonely in the shipyard, but the dunnage is already being stacked to the rest of the fleet to join them.
Here there have been three worlds- triametrically apposed and each unwilling to share my attention. there is the world of my thoughts and the world of fishing, which wakes me often from the others, but which also buys my groceries. there is the world of each book I read, sad and grey. Books of islands, the sea and becoming mad, becoming apathetic, in love, violent, divorced, orphaned, oneself, alone, and of becoming misled.
Each World will hold me until my eyes glaze. I will look out the cabin window without seeing the beaded glass or the fog which sometimes hides the other ships and land.
our VHF radio might be screaming of my captain- but my gaze will be held by Disko Troop's right arm, by piggy's asthma, by smith's overalls, sunny's bight, franny arriving by train, herzog's third divorce or by memories all my own.
I'll think about places and people I've been- about what i'd make of an abandoned workhouse. john cage. Who would I have been if I'd stuck around, what if the polish children hadn't been climbing in as i climbed out? why is columbian so much less bitter. luwak? I'll yawn and and stop, who knows for how long, wondering at the beauty in life and at how well a yawn can be likened to cream as it's poured into coffee.