Cruising Avila Beach Bay
The truth is I want it all —
I want to be my zodiac driver,
follow a narrow cave to its end,
then dive and come up in a cove
discovering Caribbean turquoise.
I want to be him scaling Smith Island,
a fifty-foot rock, and find the rings
still there, the ones that tethered children,
kept them safe in 1874 when families dared
to build houses and live at sea.
I want to be my zodiac driver's girlfriend
teaching yoga while floating on the bay.
Instead of mats, class members stand
on paddle boards and do their poses.
I want to be the pelican aiming,
then plunging full speed
into a bait ball of anchovies and rising,
my mouth full of Caesar salad.
I want to be the whale breaching, and then
be me, breathless with stories to share.
And now, tucked in, dreaming,
I have it all.
Homage
At the stop sign
the closed convertible top
stands up, salutes the sun
and bows in pagan prayer.
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To A Turkey Vulture
On Jacaranda Lane,
I trespass tilled soil
searching sky and cedars
for your Brazilian cousin
called Crested Caracara.
I heard she flew into town
that I'd find her here
with her scarlet face,
white-caped neck and black beret.
You've been getting lots of looks:
people hopeful, then sorry you're not
that uppity bird who claims Falcon roots.
Staring at your soaring splendor, I'm over
my fling with that fly-by-night flirt.
Caracara Image by Dan Pancamo
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