Tides up, early fall, below the cabins at Ford Cove on Hornby Island.
My partner and I spent a few days on Hornby Island. We stayed in a cabin overlooking Lambert Channel. Mornings we strolled down to the Ford Cove store, drank coffee and talked with the locals:
I arrived on this shore late in life to find the kelp beds gone and few fish left. Such is the talk on Jennifer's porch. Yet the surface seems fine: the blue sky, the wide tide that rushes through the narrows, small boats that bob at the end of a long wooden wharf. I imagine: a sorry cancer beneath the tanned skin of Adonis, the sugary words of industry, a gleaming silver Saturn. But the surface seems fine. And on Jennifer's porch we laugh about things not funny in the least.