Over jagged gray waves
they’re rowing toward the blue
boat bobbing at its mooring.
Late October, two
old men bent to the sky.

The air is chill, the boat
unsteady as they climb
over the side to find
their balance on the deck.
They have lost track of time.

The motor coughs and roars,
then one unties the line.
The other turns and steers
out of the cove’s embrace,
skirting the subtle reefs,

passing over the wrecks.
The tide is low. Long swells
push them to speed their course,
hug the shore’s devious breast.
White froth lathers the rocks.

Skirting the fir-clad islands
they thread through harbor craft
to reach the pier and pilings.
What strangers here, what welcome
in timeworn planks and stone.

Now the boat’s hoisted high
aloft in alien air.
Summer, so sweet and rapt,
has flared and guttered while
its essence has escaped.

Which way to town? The street
curves out of sight. The wind
picks up. Spatters of rain
announce the onset of
a storm. It feels like sleet.