The Sound

It grows on you, rather quickly–
The Sound’s lulling darkness
Lapping back and forth
along the pebbly shoreline

We watch the green and white ferries, and
how they ride the waves, like musical notes
from Samuel Barber’s Adagio for Strings
Haunting presence, especially
when there’s fog, or a light rain

The gulls know its springtime
Though there is no sun
They sit longer, closer to you–
Waiting for a handout–a piece of bread, a stale cookie
The red-headed boy fed one a slice of greasy salami
The damn fool ate it straight down

The Sound grows on you
In a soulful way, cutting deep inside you
to places you dream about, but
never seem to remember
Except you know they’re very old

Seattle would never be what it is
were it not for the Sound, and
it’s constant nudging and coaxing
to go deeper, plumb life’s depths
Let the foghorns at night sink in