Driving across Canada, three thousand-odd miles in a light rain

with wet roads in the windshield

the same deep black as a printer's ink

or fried emulsion,

to see if one ocean is so different from another.

Provinces go past

west to east

with our travelogue narrated

by wipers' creak and tires' thrum,

punctuated by truck stops, motels, Tim Hortons

until sun sets, fade to black, start again tomorrow,

until we can see the ocean.

Past Aillik, past the hills.

The distance dampens the waves

like an oil slick

so that only the occasional whitecap breaks through,

drawing attention to itself like a chipped tooth in a smile.

We dip our toes in,

and walk next to the water,

rougher now that we are next to it,

you hold my hand as we mull about how different

this is from that,

and how, when we close our eyes, there's no way to know.