“That Friend speaks my mind,”
S— told me
walking north
on the circular road through town,
“is what you say
when you agree with something said
at a Quaker meeting.”

The crosses that lined the road
responded to her
“Christ has risen!”
“Jesus was buried for you.”
“Merry Christmas! December 2009”

We walked toward the dock,
to our waiting boat
poised to take us back to the mainland,
its back cabin full
of women in church hats
daughters in flower dresses
fathers in camouflage jackets
smoking cigarettes

Red hat glowering down,
the mayor came out of the passenger cabin
introducing himself while
pointing to a map.

This was where
there once was a land bridge
between two separate pieces of land
once contiguous,
once above
a now-leavened bay.

a strong man,
weather-worn by a lifetime
digging deep in this
great estuary of the east.

We took a seat starboard
as he walked away
to the captain’s room,
and S— told me
one more Quaker sentiment:

“ ‘I stand in the way of this movement,’
is what you say
when you disagree

when you want to
halt the conversation entirely,
but can only hope to delay it

so you’ll have some time to prepare.”

We sat in silence after that,
waiting for the next thought to come

the only sound
an American flag hanging off the stern
raging in the quick wind

In time
a silhouetted profile of land
appeared on the distant horizon,
and I pointed to
the dock coming into focus

the start of our one-hundred-mile drive.

I looked to her to say,
“Hey, we’re about to reach land,

but we still
have so long left to go.”