We are all seeking something: a montage,
          a horizon, a reveal, the ease of pacing the ridge.
Above the bay on the pebble and dirt path

                    I walk, but more slowly – more careful now
          and try to lift my eyes away from trail to bay
before both are lost. Rafted in kelp, sea otters roll.

                    A mile away, a harbor seal surfaces
          like a punctuation mark, the ling cod,
unseen but heavy-jawed rules the reef mosaics.

                    Tonnage of Orcas sleep
          in a deep somewhere. Thoughts could drown,
but don’t. Old scenes pump and glide

                    like the wide wings
          of shrill gulls. Memories quiet as the silhouette
of a brown pelican linger. Comma-shaped clouds

                    swim past a morning moonset –
          the crescent pale as scrubbed
sand dollars. A sense of purpose slips

                    among textured things
          with fins and mottled skin, beaks
and whiskered faces. Daily, our lives

                    bob above small waves like Rumi.
          If I am a line item in God’s book
of accounts, then in a place like this,

                    I could commit bright, brave acts
          in the service of this bay while cypress
and redwood pick the teeth of the wind.