At this hour of leaving the pines were black and still,
a bird fluttered to the ground like a handkerchief,
the small boat jostled at its weathered moorings,
your coat a splash of red against the bay.
The attendants stamped your ticket, smiling between themselves,
two passengers argued in a foreign language,
a cyclist in uniform threw a heavy bag,
a horn was blown, three children pushed on board.
You picked your baggage from the loamy soil,
a woman laughed at a comment I couldn't hear,
though she looked at me as if she thought I'd heard,
your shawl billowing like a flimsy, delicate wing.