Travis Stephens, USA
There are log tows here that move
at a few miles an hour. They tie
to rock faces to await the tide.
Bears and deer are known to come aboard
the log rafts. Tug men trail lures
all the way. Caulked boots.
These men know
of places where old paint colors
the rock walls—fish, sunburst, faces—
colors as old as the sunset brush
on the canvas of the sea.
We anchored early
because the wind was blowing up Johnstone
Strait, up and into our faces.
This old ketch is comfortable and slow.
The charts are pastel, buff land
and gray waters jeweled with numbers.
Without effort, the anchor dug into the bar
in front of this inlet and held.
Across the bow, past the spit
of sand and shell, the whitecaps wait.
It was early so we took the dog ashore.
She bounded into the alder
as we gathered driftwood
for our tiny wood stove.
Look, you said, shell midden.
Oh. We looked at the deep alder,
wide-armed cottonwoods.
Do you think?
I’m sure.
There were no totems, of course,
no longhouses or huts. The illness
is two hundred years old.
The wind blows and blows.
Later, in a Canadian Coast Pilot,
we found a name: Matilpi.
Nothing more.
At first light we sailed on.
Travis Stephens is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. A graduate of the University of Wisconsin-Eau Claire, recent credits include Gyroscope Review, Gravitas, Sheila-na-gig, Raw Art Review, Crosswinds Poetry Journal and elsewhere.