What you hope to find at the end of your rope

Lost last days of summer

Dry heat.
Golden light. Dusty
roads. Cornsilk and warm
tomatoes. Dogs riding in
the backs of trucks, tongues
lolling. Dry creek beds.
Stones in your shoes and the sweet
smell of water, forest
shadow, red cedar, green
moss.

Afternoon.
Children rush down the dock and
leap into saltwater.
Again. And
again. 
Look here,
over here. 
Watch me
now!
Onshore, by splayed
bicycles, a
damp dog barks.

Texada Island, August 2013

Photos were taken on Texada Island in August. The poem was composed from notes in my summer journals, drafted after a long walk on Texada.