Standing at the rail of the Tsawwassen-Swartz ferry, Hank gazed at islands of emerald and jade shrouded in sentient mist. Dense forests of cedar climbed into inscrutibility. He imangined himself a wandering Taoist monk, travelling alone with no need of shrines nor little Buddhas along the path, cloud hidden, his where-abouts unknown. It occured to him that the scenic fare resembled a Chinese watercolor.
He envisioned spontaneous brush strokes. His mind's eye watched as line after line appeared. Swit swit swit. A gob, then a smear. Whisk! Once begun each stroke hastened to its conclusion without interruption.
He did not contemplate a Creator. If there was one somewhere, a Supreme Artist, a Supreme Consciousness, then He-She-It would not pause amid brushstroke.
He saw asymmetry in Nature, and he marvelled.
*
Suddenly a rugged hand grasped Hank's shoulder.
A Victorian accent: "Aren't you the chap I met at Carmanah Valley? Trying to save the Sitka spruce?"
Hank measured the tall elderly man with white sideburns and handlebar moustache. High of brow and hollow of cheek. Pink skin and watery blue eyes. Bald crown covered with a motorman's cap, the kind Hank associated with Sluggo. And gray herringbone topcoat. A true gentleman from old Victoria.
"Name's Hank." Gregariously offering a handshake.
"Naismith Bowdoin. Retired major. I believe I know you as Greendozer."
Hank closed his eyes, slipping into an unexpected state of grace.
Then he smiled his most beatific smile in ages.
"A long time ago, my friend."
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