Fidalgo Island

By Christl Call-Cook

The rain at the window is a woman.
She is mute, jealous of the foghorn.
Her fingers dissolve and bead down the glass.
She coats us in grey like wet, bat-wing skin
The town and its one long street.

Out there
through sodden leaves
walks a boy in short sleeves.
He curves his long body, stuffing
himself bit by bit into his pockets.

One sailboat, sails bound
like cautious mouths, churns
past the bouy's warning lights,
slipping out of the harbor's rusting cul de sac.