September 2, 2016
Stinson Beach, California
The leaves toss fervently
outside the wavy, paned glass
of the Victorian house on the hill.
The surf calls ceaselessly,
rising and falling through
nighttime, daybreak, noonday.
The clock ticks relentlessly
above the kitchen sink.
The dog lies peacefully,
tail curled to elbow,
not four feet from her matron.
It is September, just barely, in Stinson Beach.
The Friday before Labor Day
Before the crowds
Before the cars
Before the picnics, bar-be-ques
Whooping and hollering.
Before the surfers, trash, trucks,
lifeguards, and rangers.
It’s quiet now.
Morning. A mother and her girl
traipse sand patterned
in the early light
ikat, polka dot, herringbone.
A gulls’ convention
rises like a grey cloud
on a collective beating of wings,
leaving the beach pummeled
with thousands of webbed footprints.
Sandpipers, elegant and discreet,
probe the shoreline, their delicate beaks
as purposeful as jackhammers.
The girl finds a sand dollar,
then another.
She watches the creamy waves roil
the sand, watches it
sift down in eddying patterns,
scans for telltale flash of white,
the skeletal edge of
a medallion bleached by the sun.
