Early morning, late afternoon walks
through damp meadows or along the bluff, 
the Pacific crashing a rocky shore,
exploding through the blowhole
only to settle back quietly into white foam caps 
before repeating.

Pillowed by cushions of carpet grass,
our backs against the berm,
we watch osprey dive,
their catch between strong talons
carried on thermals to the ridge above.
On Shell Beach, a silver white arabesque of sanderlings 
chase the tide, twisting left then right at water’s edge, 
a mud quest for mollusks interrupted by
boisterous children.

At low tide we pry mussels from rocks
to mix with garlic, wine, hot pots of pasta, laughter and talk, 
the sunset framed in picture windows.
Later, on the perch you built, a million stars overhead,
the moon shining on the water,
wind swirling round us,
we listen for the rhythm of waves against shore,
cry of the oystercatcher, restless cormorants settling in.