Logbook entry
Comox — Low Water
From the ship's logbook — a place I stopped, set down as it was: a poem, sometimes a photo, a map, or the notes of a travel day. A record from the voyage, not an essay.
The tide has emptied out the bay and left the dock its bones — grey planks gone soft, the pilings tall as patient standing stones. A rusted mooring ring keeps no one; the channel thins to brown. The trollers raft along the floats and let their engines down. Beyond the breakwater the hills go blue and lose their seams, and we lie fendered to the timber, sails bound, hull full of dreams. No wake, no wind, no need to be anywhere but here — just mudflats breathing in the sun and evening drawing near.