The last ferry ends the day with a shout the squalling gulls follow in.
The racket from the dock is the old captain’s wife. The homes above town,
Victorian and pale, don’t believe the cliffs’ prediction: rock and rain
share a plan to someday bed-down below the sea. Of course
you never want to leave. Never want to undo the sound of a single oar
or the pretty picture the sun is dropping down behind the bar. Never want to
untie the net of fish hung along the deck or unclick memory’s
best chance at finding home. You never want to strain your eyes
this far north, or forget the way a breeze tastes. Even the age you felt
upon arrival is the placid bay’s way of saying stay, forget the morning ferry.
Travis Truax earned his bachelor’s degree in English from Southeastern Oklahoma State University in 2010. After college, he spent several years working in various national parks out West. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Flyover Country, Quarterly West, Pinyon Review, The Flagler Review, and The Eastern Iowa Review. Currently, he is in Bozeman, Montana.