It’s raining on my face
It’s raining in my hair
Oh didn’t you hear the forecast, it’s to be raining everywhere
My fingers are soaked and cold
My neck is cold and wet
Oh let me go inside to be dry, warm my fingers and my hands
I took my shawl, that’s all
You took a light spring jacket
A lot of good these did us when the thunder clouds rolled in
We were gonna go on a boat
Would have gotten wet anyway
Gone off to explore the high tide off the shores of
Neah Bay
I don’t know how it feels
Seeing these neat little rows
Rows of aluminum sided houses each with newly built carports
Compared to what once was lived in
Log structures on the ocean
Would I be seeing logs or car ports if my kind had not rolled in
I think I smell smoked fish
I think I smell a tourist
We’re pressing near that smoke shack where the
New York Times guy said the salmon is best
How do I know? – Because the smoker taped up the clipping from the Times
Next to his rack of poles and knives
At a smoke shack in
Neah Bay
It’s tickling at my ears
It’s pointing to the dark
The salty breeze that carries with it sounds I can’t explain
Perhaps it would make sense if voices lived in whitecaps
Perhaps it would make sense that I hear stories in the wind
My brother says he hears them from time to time
Could they be lying, could they be only in our minds
And sure we’ll leave here more confused than when we came in yesterday
Who am I to say I have an answer
For the world of
Neah Bay
Copyright 2007, 2012 Rachel Zylstra