Perimeter Station, early morning, August 2005

At this time of morning, no one is here, even in the vast parking lot behind us
And for most this is the end of the line at this time of day
But we four have other ends in mind, and this is our beginning;
We sit alone and await the quiet silver metal train from the north
Which shows itself suddenly, silently from up the line and swooshes into the station
Slowing, slowing, slowing, stopping and opening herself to our sleepy entry
To be carried gently all the way through the ATL to the airport to a plane to the sky
To Seattle where everyone sells coffee and beer and dampness and planes and on
To Ketchikan, the gateway to the frontier for goldminers and fishermen,
Like us, who fly on to tiny, little Craig to sleep again before the morning comes early
And we speed out into the darkness on fiberglass vessels
Across the silent bay and outward between the forested islands
Seeking schools of pink-striped silver salmon which hide beneath us in the cold black waters
And pull and reel and pull and reel until we are back on the dock again
With boxes of salmon and monstrous halibut from the bottom of the sea
And back again to Ketchikan and Seattle and the sky and the ATL
And another silver train carrying us and our pink and silver fish
Back to the quiet station behind the mall again:
The end of the line.