In a small boat off Port Renfrew

a woman trolling for halibut

caught the moon.

It was pale and pocked.

It lengthened from disc to oval to flatfish

as she lifted it. The rod bowed.

When the rod’s tip touched the water’s surface

the moon sprang from the waves

streaming foam, and soared overhead.

The woman fell on her back –

winded, wordless – rocking as the boat rocked.

The moon hung above her,

huge and closer than a star.

It had grown on a tongue of silt

at the river’s mouth, dark-side-down,

resting on its mind-reading side,

then slid to deep waters.

Staring up at it, the woman knew it knew.