There are moments you just can’t really begin to write

about, the peace of an old friend’s home, the soft and

fast rain, faint hint of lilac ,

an old oak and the lean white legs of eucalyptus,

then hours up a trail of dusty earth, wild

fennel and sage, the rough and intrusive fingers

of chaparral.   

I walk and walk, hide in sand carved caves,

move like an anemone through mossy oak groves, open

and unexpected until the trail

reaches above the sea, a gaping breath, and I’m afraid to

look down,

sometimes it’s all too much to take in,

as down below, a man,

I always assume so,

shatters both windows, grabs the bags, cash you earned and saved

for that precious bite of Unagi, Hamachi flown in from Japan,

when all you need is right here, here where sand pelts my face,

sticks to my lips,

each little spot of bone and ash,

a seagull’s brittle skeleton,

fills my ears and eyes while green wash

pulses and pounds .

I really can’t believe it,

the duress and serenity of her gray wings and still body, the white

crests of foam, the break and break and break.

***