co-directs the Sustainability Initiative and Convergence Writers Series. She has spent over 30 summers working on the water in Alaska in a variety of capacities, including commercial fishing for salmon, skippering a 65-foot schooner, and more recently, working as a naturalist. She divides her time between Indianola and Chimacum, Washington.
by Holly Hughes
Make a place for the glint in the seal’s eye that second before
it rolls back its slick head, slips silent beneath the surface.
Make room for the shimmer of salmon, splitting the sun, leaping
for the stream of its birth, even knowing what’s ahead.
Carve out a corner for the crab who grasped the blade
of the cleaver that sliced it in two, wouldn’t let go.
That light, dazzling dark sea ahead, remember it, remember
how it seeps from billowing cumulous when you least expect
or how the sun finds the crack in the horizon’s solder to empty
out its cargo at dusk, a slick sheen across the water.
How the green spinning earth and blue brimming sea go on and on
even when we’re not looking, and that perhaps, if we can pay
attention for even a second, remember just this, it may not
make us whole, but it could be a good place to begin.