The Pier at Night
by Jane Lang

She stood on the old wooden pier
as darkness slowly crept in, spilled
over, and watched the heron land on
the same third buoy as so many nights
before amidst the still-taut bones
of the old, dependable, though for
many years unused, forty-two-foot
CHB, anchored—no longer making
its way through the locks, into the
San Juans, on toward Friday Harbor,
a favorite place to dock—walk the
main street of the quaint small town,
grab a glass of wine, be in the
moment with him, her Captain. The
memories and her tears still
mingle with the sounds of night.

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