Sunday, April 3, 2016


I could've gone to the writers' convention.
I kept thinking to myself, well maybe I should've.
I'm supposed to be a writer, and all that.
Besides, all my friends are there.
But then, this cliff, this shore
was my view yesterday, all day.
On set for Hand of God at an ungodly hour
we watched dawn's light crawl down Big Sur ridge
and the fogbank retreated to a safe distance.
A roadside chef cracked dozens of eggs
(we ate plein air omlettes right on Hwy 1,
a fencepost with a view for a table).
Such famous beauty before us,
replete with rubberneckers and cyclists,
cavorting whales and curious sea otters.
Between takes, surcease of the sea
breathing beside me. All day long.
I saw sleepy indigo wake to turquoise
and dream itself to pale robin's egg blue
to match the celestial eyes of the sky.


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