Laughter drifts across the water from other boats anchored in the bay. The last note of Taps has echoed and fallen silent from the ceremony at the marina. Night is settling around us and I feel so content here on deck with a blanket wrapped around me, I stay put.
The sun has sunk in the northwestern sky, its legacy an orange glow over a distant island. Even the wind, a constant companion during the day, is at rest, leaving the water flat and calm. We bob gently, almost forgetting we are on a boat.
A pinprick of light appears above and I know it must be a planet – Saturn or Jupiter – but I make a wish anyway and settle back to watch for more. I don’t have long to wait. Soon the black bowl above me is full of stars and I watch, mesmerized, as the International Space Station steadily moves across from north to south, then disappears.
More laughter. A heron caws as it swoops across the water and vanishes into the darkness near shore.
It is the kind of night that brings to mind forgotten dreams, while birthing new ones. The expansive sky makes me want to stretch my limbs long and reach for something new, somewhere different.
I log these dreams – the old and the new – into the file in my mind and breathe deep. A lingering pocket of the day’s warmth in the nearby forest brings the spice of trees and the tang of the sea to my nose. Tomorrow I’ll step toward my remembered and newly-birthed dreams but, for now, I’ll pull the blanket tighter around me and stay right where I am.
*From my San Juan Islands Collection. Roche Harbor. July 27, 2021.