The ferry would leave sometime at the end of the day
Some of the visitors made themselves at the picnic table
In the gully further from the port
pollen poured down from the hills
James was bragging about his time in california
About how the redwoods and impossible autumns
A sense of something passing through your hands
That you couldn't close your fingers around
As he spoke a cold front came through
The surf kicked up in their peripheral kilometers down hill
The cloud multiplied its innocent whites
Became guilty grays
maybe thunder clapped, rain came in blocks
James and his friends walked back to port
The rain soaking their sweatshirts
exacting frowns, dampening their moods
They didn't bother seeking shelter under narrow bridges
Their long walk was so dreary in that thick rain
They started to lose their hope no breaks no lull
They started to forget their own names
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