Fishing, Talking, Drinking

Having spent the day fishing
and talking and drinking,
now at my table to write alone
I'd choose to walk in the dark
solitary under threatening clouds,
their undersides reflecting Seattle's lights,
illuminating those thoughts 
I'd rather conceal.

In the following dawn's breeze
a vague sensation of my hands,
my feet and this ink
drifting, as I drift
above the clouds, above this flesh
in my shoes now soaked by dew,
is not weighed but buoyed 
by a few friendships, a few shared beers
and understanding it matters not
if we drift aimlessly
or go straight.