Hood Canal (Fjord)
Dosewallips State Park
Washington State
June 2025
Turning Left at Quintain Lane
Quintains, Cinquains, Waka, Tankas
650+ Quintains by Mike Garofalo
566.
Highway 101
winds past
Brinnon to Potlach—
from forests to the edge of the seas,
the Hood sea flapping endlessly.
567.
O! Amazed! The pale blue sea—
The Hood Canal’s little waves
slapping the rocky shore.
Happy oysters settling—
Oh! Took my breath away.
568.
The buzz of aircraft
over the red cedars
fading...
a big black ant
crawled over me
569.
No ancient ruins
no famous folks
no documented histories
no great battle scenes—
just fish in the Hood Canal.
570.
Seal Rock campground
concrete picnic bench—
slight breeze
dappled shade
nobody here but me
571.
Heartburn’s heavy
painful stab—
pharmacy had
what I need
Rolaids' Tabs
572.
Occasional red
Pacific Madrone trunk—
roadside decoration
sprinkled amongst
spruce and cedar trees
573.
A couple walking
the Seal Rock path—
he very tall
she very short
hand in hand
574.
Not a single boat
of blue or gray
speeding by
anywhere today—
Monday workday!
575.
Keyboard singing
from the French Suite
or Well Tempered Clavier—
J.S. Bach by Argerich
in the dark woods on MP3s.
576.
Surprisingly,
the campground was empty
these final days
of Spring—
Twilight Zone scene.
577.
The cafe was empty
except for me
eating fried Hamma Hamma oysters—
the perky young waitress
told me her stories
578.
One blooming rhododendron
on a sloped dressed in spiky ferns—
one girl and four boys
waiting for the school bus
coexisting amicably
579.
emptiness hums
a solemn tune
clothed invisibly
hiding in
branches of hanging skies
580.
Rainbow View Falls trail
steep and long
for an 80 year old—
my knees and thighs
ached for two days on.
581.
Mt. Walker flanked
deep Rainbow Falls—
salmon hatchery
on the tiny Quilcene stream,
returning hatchlings to the sea.
582.
The Hood waterways
blurred in hazy mist
dull gray obscured today—
flashes of sunlight
cut through the trees.
583.
From Chimacum
to Quilcene, picturesque
rolling hills of farms—
faster cards
Speed around me!
584.
“DosEwallips” they say
not “Doswallips” like me,
spelled “Dosewallips” correctly—
Saying “pOtato” or “poTato,”
tastes so good either way.
585.
In heated afternoons
I sit in the shade…
reading dead poets
still alive
in printed words on paper trees.
586.
Many see them in clouds…
faces and animals
appearing and disappearing.
I see them in photographs
as if captured alive.
587.
She told me
“look for the Strawberry Moon”
tonight; above the Hood sea.
I did. The Man in the Moon
was munching plump strawberries.
588.
The road through Sequim—
four lanes fast pass
flat fields of lavender and grass
in the rain shadow of Mt. Olympus,
sunnier, drier, less overcast.
589.
The tourists nod as they pass
from Port Townsend to Port Angeles
on a straight stretch of Hwy 101—
sipping a cafe mocha
on the run.
590.
I’m not in Beijing, Rome,
or Buenos Aries—
just in the Geoduck cafe (in Brinnon),
eating clams, drinking beer,
listening to locals I can understand.
591.
Strawberry Moon
hung low
orange glow
midnight rose
over Lilliwaup Cove
592.
Elk heads stuffed
on the Geoduck Cafe wall.
Still life taxidermy. Hair
bristling. Comatose,
heard the elk's stifled moan.
593.
Codfish battered
and fried. French fries
stale and crisp.
Ketchup and Tartar
sauce for dips. Cold beer.
