archipelago ovenbird There’s an island six thousand kilometers off the west coast, barely more than a rock protruding above the waves of the Pacific Ocean. It is a precarious perch, like the slippery stones I placed in the bird bath as a resting spot for bees. I can see it from above, a nearly flat surface, just barely clearing the water’s surface, no signs of civilization. “We should go there,” he says. “There’s a ferry. It only takes a day.” I wonder how this is possible, six thousand kilometers by ferry in a single day? But he insists. “Maybe two,” he concedes, but no more than that. We could go and eat in a restaurant with the sea stretching out in every direction. We could see the ancient monastery there. The monks wanted a place where no one could find them. They traveled by sail boat. They could have been lost but they found a remote archipelago and chose this island as their retreat. It hasn’t been inhabited for a hundred years, but the ferry will bring us to the wind-bitten shore. I find myself in the car. I’m in the back seat like a child and he’s driving us down a narrow causeway to the docks where we will catch the ferry. I’m afraid. He won’t keep his eyes on the road. He keeps turning around to tell me about the island, its history, its secrets. He’s pointing at a map which is crumpled from so many unfoldings. The edges are soft from the sweat of his palms. The car veers left. I beg him to pay attention. There’s so little between us and the ocean, just a thin strip of scree, then depths beyond imagining. In his mind he’s walking the cliffs of the island. But the ocean is already here, itching to close over our heads, before we even have a chance to begin. 260501 what's it to you? who go blather from