God. Ocean. Sunrise.
Whatever I am sitting here between,
hello.
***
Sea otter profile:
backcurved, hooking the tide.
Nothing so distinctive
--so joyfully learned, wondrously greeted
every salt-gift sighting.
***
Lowtide wader talk.
Coyote brush sun-scented
and the seals hauled out.
My low tide too
but the breeze coming up says
wake. Pray
with one foot
steady-placed, and then
the other.
***
Something has died. And the pleasant smell
of chaparral cannot hope to cover it up.
The chaparral must die and so must I
--would we not also wish
to leave something behind?
***
At the last, four notes
ascending their purple staff:
marsh-water-dune-sky.
After the last
silent owl-rise.
