Port Townsend

Travis Truax

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.