The estuary's broad face ripples 
with picked-out pieces of the morning sun. 
Bits of the reflected world dissolve 
and join again, rocking. So like 
how we shore-dwellers come to live.  

Against the current's pull  
one sculler twists her oars, 
tutoring her nerves 
in a silver shell on the silver dapple. 

A lone pelican in brocade-brown 
circles over slow intaking sheen,  
prophet divining the deeps.    
In her wise and patient mien 
she shops the unknown 
with a flapping pouch 
that’s keen for breakfast. 

One white heron 
fishing with its water-twin 
stalks through the mirrored green of reeds; 
how many days could I hunt that way 
longing to strike. How many hours? 

Flying low and storm-cloud-dark,   
a cormorant threads the slough, 
fleeing its remorseless shadow. 

Here and there, silver hiccups of baitfish 
tingle the surface: ideas that twitch for purchase 
in the greater mind. 

Over all, the mountain looms, 
towing us breath-bound creatures 
inevitably out of our reluctance; 
cautioning us: let go! while 

it backs majestically into streaming clouds.