I was sitting on my front porch tonight
watching my neighbors across the street
showing their dinner guests
(in appropriate, casual clothing)
the new landscaping project in their front yard.
They all stood there looking at the ground,
the ornamental grasses,
the colored leaves on the perennials.
After a while, the guests got into their
(new mid-sized blue) sedans
and drove away
while I drank tea out of a well loved glass
and smoked, slowly, a hand-rolled cigarette
and dreamed of Ojai
I'm waking up early
it is winter now
and the northwest swells are beginning their march
south toward the Ventura county line.
The business majors and
law-clerks-to-be have returned to school
and the old guard are too cold to leave their Rincon point bedrooms.
The sun is rising and I am taking my favorite surfboard
from atop its ancient surf-rack home on the Toyota.
I paddle to my spot:
a little peak that looks upon a perfect crescent of rocky coastline,
my favorite artery connecting north to south,
with views of Highway 101 and the tattered hammock on the beach.
From here I wait for the pulse, the driving force of winter storms,
then fly on wings of water
wisps from the broken backs of waves
(the salty breath of god)
Even tonight, on the porch,
I can feel it my own blood:
A primal desire to connect with saline--
the very essence of life.