The wind is sharp this morning,
the few warm days of summer
crowded like sheep into a small pen
by the ocean air, cool off the Pacific.
Clouds lower the ceiling,
pressing down on the high hills,
the channel stirred, covered
in small wind driven waves,
the grass bent over and yellowed
as the rains of spring recede.
I find myself in the solitude
like one of the old faces carved
in rock stepping down to the sea,
watching the water’s endless movement,
enlivened by the wind.
There’s no pretense beside something so large,
no point in expanding the self.
Geese waddle in my neighbors’ grassy field,
nosing their furry newborn toward the water
with their long craning necks;
most of their chicks have survived
the interminable sit and circling predators.
There’s hope in their hatched little bodies,
an ache in something so vulnerable
and a reminder to keep vigil
over what yet waits to be born
on this course grey stone
overlooking the windswept sea.