
……Gulls feast in freshly furrowed and sown
Salinas fields early February, early warmth
……far from the cold Big Sur wind-thrashed waves
beyond the Santa Lucias:
…………………………………..or startle, confetti
……thrown in the blue sky before they settle again
in Carmel River’s dune-protected mouth.
……How do they manage tonight when the wind
turns Lear-mad and howls and tears at the eaves?
……I cannot sleep, although sleep smooths the lines
of the woman I have grown old beside, beside me.
……All night the storm thrusts inland so morning
bares a dust-brown day where gulls
……crouch between the furrows brown waves
or nestle behind the dunes as a white-capped sea
……tumults towards the horizon.
When the wind wanes they soar, not feeding
……not settling, their hunched patience forsworn
Do they fill the air from manic relief—
……or balanced between too much and too little
fly from natural joy?
………………………………Could I swoop over that sea
……in a dazzle of wings in such a moment?
Fear……conflict……hunger……purged?
……I stand between so many worlds, life……love……age,
man……animal……and the world’s slow death,
……my only wings my words.



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