your phone says you are in, or at least from, western washington, but not seattle

i attach a hose to
a spigot
on a wooden dock,
floating.
placing the open end
of the hose
into the receiving port
for the vessel’s fresh water
tanks, i turn
the spigot on.

a few hours ago,
i turned
the faucet for my sink,
filling a glass
with water. water,
that has been through
many, versions
and vessels,
to get to me.

i add tinctured
hawthorn
and motherwort
to water glass,
drink it all down.

a walk over
the bridge
to an adjacent island
in the gathering folds
of dusk.

September; dusk
gathers opulently.

i walk along
the ocean and
through little patches
of wood, wondering,
do i exist?
or, perhaps it is,
do i exist in
the ways i think
i might like to?
preferences,
so often serving
as soft bars
for our confinements.

a sea lion
in the channel
looks over at me,
dives back
again. eagles
and gulls glide on
the breeze. fireweed
has exhausted itself
of flower, even
its cotton seeds,
all mostly blown away.

these fading days
of changing season.

i breathe in
the oxygen gifted me
by all these saintly trees.
in turn, i
exhale back
to them what they
require.

i walk back
to my evening dock.
an older couple
walk towards me
on a tiny seaside street.
i smile at them
as we pass,
they look at me,
smile and nod,
and continue
on their way.

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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