More than 300 hundred days into this project,and here I go: I hit another day in which I can’t seem to be able to wrest any words from the air, however wonderful that air is, courtesy of more gorgeous weather with plenty blue skies and brilliant sunshine. The fact that I have fallen across that threshold of a cold I felt yesterday into a fully stuffed and achy head, doesn’t do much for writing anything sensible to accompany the photo of Mt. Tam looking mighty sparkly in the morning sun….
So once again, I turn to the poets for a little help. More than a little, since I am about to borrow their words, as if to play dress-up for the show I couldn’t quite make go on by myself today:
By Ken Haas
As the light comes up, first shorebirds come in
one by one to tip the steepled granite
where surf breaks black to blue to white,
then their kin fill in quietly around and below
as a stream’s bustle spills the tide sideways and slips
a bleached herring bone from its windowpane stone.
Plumes of gold bottle-grass never enlighten
the metropolis of ingenuous char and tilted,
nor do cormorants believe in the squall,
gravid kelp swales or sardines shivered down,
just as lizard and rock have different knowledge
of each other, yesterday, the gutted cliff, the sun.
You may find you are not needed, which is not the same
as unwelcome, and there is an order without design.
-from the anthology The Place That Inhabits Us: Poems of the San Francisco Bay Watershed (Sixteen Rivers Press)