The trick is to keep the hands
busy: A moment of slack 

and the boat begins to heel.
Tomorrow I’ll return, taking 

Blewett pass; I’ll miss 
sunrise over the umlauts

of Leavenworth, might 
arrive later than I ought.  

The art of losing isn’t hard
to master, but forgetting 

is another matter.  What
have I left in my wake?

There’s whitecaps 
rising on the water,

few boats, the force
of the wind now

slamming doors and 
forcing in others.