by Abby Meyer

For Darla

We feel we have caught this day
like this seagull 
with a whelk in his mouth.

Hills smoke by the sea,
and they burn the heather
to shoot the grouse

And the smoke burns
with a certain haze. The mist
and the memories of separate 
camping trips

flood onto the horizon. 
We are drenched. 

We are not sure 
if the boat will return
to take us back to reality.

I wonder if when I think back 

to the sound of rain on hoods
I will only picture 
my childhood

Or you in your yellow 
fisherman coat,
dancing with no music.