The wind is a slack freeze billowing across the low structures of the ferry as it floats indelibly towards the coastal island landmass once known as Quadra and Vancouver's Island, now maintaining only the former prefix as if either dub of the landscape was a 'fix' at all. There is a Canadian flag tangling with itself in the cold, wound around a metal cable wire on the top sun deck reserved for smokers avoiding the crisp air for the formaldehyde devil they already know.
Waves ripple through the fabric flag above and the fabric water below, both tossed by the same heavenly forces forever wafting throughout the globe as if all the steam ever boiled never truly left the biosphere nor converted back into liquid but instead became yet another one of many unforeseen byproducts of our oh-so human participation in existence;
yet another one of many unforeseen consequences left to ring in our ears til we cease as observers, thus ceasing to observe.
“It is above as it is below” and “there is no difference between the observer and the observed.” Not my thoughts, nor I doubt anyone's thoughts in particular.
Snow dusts the caressed peaks, valleys, and crevices of the Pacific Coastal mountain range, each geological mound standing shoulder-to-shoulder looking across the withered liquid mounds in quicker motion atop the Georgia Strait below as if watching a child relative playing with new toys received on Christmas morning.
I have no words adequate enough to express all this beauty.
All I can do is help you read my mind and hope my wordless words equal poetic telepathy.
The wind is still a slack freeze as I exit the ferry. There's no one here but all of us, *hello!