It's been a year since I have last heard this sound. It has a way of singsonging in my ears long after I've left the Sound. I hear it in the whistling of tap water coming through the pipes, in a distant truck horn, and the squeal of tires against wet pavement. Like a seashell, my memories cradle that sound and all I have to do is listen for it. A mist is rising on the water, broken only by the flutter of black and white swallows.
Seagulls chatter nearby and the sea air is thick.
I've stood here so many times, yet the moment I park my car in lane 4, I feel like it's the first time I've traveled these waters. Every time I come here, I try to hold onto every detail, every sensation. At last, night falls gently on the waters and sleepy Friday Harbor's lights appear in the twilight. I feel the magic of this place pulsate around me. Tomorrow, I will see whales.