We have reached this place.
A continent’s end-stop
made whole.
Fir, cedar, the old Chinook wood.
Glacial water meets the ocean
all morning. Sand in our shoes,
soggy with a distant mountain’s gift.
A ship tells us
there are farther places
but we can’t believe it.
Beaten ridges break across
the sky above the Strait. Gulls,
the pier. The final corner
is a gesturing land. A hint.