The Strait of Georgia (prose poem)

The wind is a slack freeze billowing 

across the low structures of the ferry 

as it floats indelibly towards the coastal 

island landmass once known as Quadra 

and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining 

only the latter prefix as if either dub of 

the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a 

Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold, 

wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun 

deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air 

for the formaldehyde devil they already know. 

Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and 

the fabric water below, both tossed by the same 

heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the 

globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly 

left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid 

but instead became yet another one of many 

unforeseen 

byproducts 

of our 

oh-so human 

participation 

in 

existence;

yet another 

one of many 

unforeseen 

consequences 

left to ring in 

our ears til we 

cease as observers, 

thus ceasing to 

observe.

“It is above as it is below” 

and 

“there is no difference between 

the observer and the observed.” 

Not my thoughts, nor I doubt 

anyone's thoughts 

in particular.

Snow dusts the caressed peaks, 

valleys, and crevices of the 

Pacific Coastal mountain range, 

each geological mound standing 

shoulder-to-shoulder looking 

across the withered liquid mounds 

in quicker motion atop the Georgia 

Strait below as if watching a child 

relative playing with new toys 

received on 

Christmas morning. 

I have no words 

adequate enough 

to express all this 

beauty. 

All I can do 

is help you 

read my mind 

and hope 

my 

wordless words 

equal 

poetic telepathy.

The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry. 

There's no one here but all of us, 

hello!