Robert Bly





November Day at McClure’s Beach

    Alone on a jagged rock at the south end of McClure's beach.
The sky low. The sea grows more and more private, as afternoon
goes on; the sky comes down closer; the unobserved water rushes
out to the horizon—horses galloping in a mountain valley at night.
The waves smash up the rock; I find flags of seaweed high on the
worn top, forty feet up, thrown up overnight; separated water still
pooled there, like the black ducks that fly desolate, forlorn, and
joyful over the seething swells, who never “feel pity for themselves,”
and “do not lie awake weeping for their sins.” In their blood cells
the vultures coast with furry necks extended, watching over the
desert for signs of life to end. It is not our life we need to weep for.
Inside us there is some secret. We are following a narrow ledge
around a mountain, we are sailing on skeletal eerie craft over the
buoyant ocean.