Past the fisherman on the point, casting from in front of their cars into a sea of leaping coho. Cursing at the absurd abundance of the un-responsive fish.
Up the mouth of the river, indian stroking into the quiet roar of fresh water.
A tiny duckling asleep on the shore, head buried in down. He wakes when the canoe is already past, stares bewildered.
A slow arc around the shoreline of the estuary, then back into the saltwater. A descending quiet, the volume of the world turned down.
The sun goes. The sky is now a dark purple, rising overhead into a dome of deep black. A satellite drifts north over Texada, stars fluttering to life in it's wake.
The remaining light compresses to a thin strip on the horizon, pushed down by the darkness. The first bats flutter across the water, the changing of the guard.
The fish have stopped jumping, headlights pull away from the beach.
Now only the sound of the paddle, and the tiny glow of the cabin, like a beacon.