Foghorns

Marc Imlay

It’s one of those nights.
I can hear the ships’ horns
from the Columbia a mile or two away.
At least three different pitches
like owls declaring their territory.
They echo off the hills on either side of the river.

Although I worry for their safety
I feel cozy and safe,
hidden and blanketed in the fog.

I turn off the lights to hear them better.
I look down to Coal Creek.
It’s a full moon.
The fog absorbs the moon’s light.
The very air glows!

I turn on the light and try to capture the moment in words.
Poof. The moment is gone. Replaced by
the nagging sense of spiritual emptiness
that comes from living through words.

Still, they can partially evoke the feeling of the experience in memory
and perhaps remind others of a similar experience they’ve had,
or open them to similar delight sometime in the future.
The balm of apologetics has reared its head.

Gratefully, the foghorns call me back to the present
warning me of the danger
of colliding with words and concepts.

I turn off the light, stop thinking, and lie on the couch.
Following the foghorns as they fade into silence,
the moment returns.
I linger on the edge as blissful oblivion beckons.