Here...

was something about a butterfly along the back of his neck while he slept. I worried I'd wake him.

On my last day in the little garret studio on the harbor, I walked up to Tiffany's and exchanged a birthday present. What I brought home and wore for my move, and since, was Frank Gehry's fish ring. It reminds me of the bulge and slice of a fish at the surface of water; or of a whale maybe, pressing through the deepest parts of the ocean.

I wonder if a whale is ever homesick, or if it just swims, enjoying only the shape and contour of it's skin within a current. Does it ever turn around, looking for the familiar in the depths of it's passage?

Is it my turn?

Mostly I just follow along, catching shadows here and there, someone else's voice drumming down the quiet.

I will hear the quiet again. Maybe soon. In the garden outside my kitchen door. Among trees and rocks. I'll grow carrots, beans, and rosemary. The Sound is a sweet walk away.

It will be warm and light breezes will exchange small gifts.

Every year I believe that.