3.19.00

I went to Deception Pass to sit before cowlicked currents, green like the moss and deep. There is a hill there I've walked a few times where I planted Rosa under black and white pebbles. I couldn't find her though I trekked in the brush for quite some time. It seemed enough to be in the vicinity, so I gave up and came down from there to climb up and over a bluff to the grassy incline below the bridge. In the past others sat also but not so that day. To me alone the breeze blew from the west and fueled the flames from my little stove. I cooked tea and drank the sparkling sun from the small diameter below the lip; I read poetry aloud to seals, who waited invisibly; I took pictures from arms' length; and I listened to the invasive roars of engines cleaving the curly sea. I wanted. I even called out the pleasure for the sharing. But again silent return. And it didn't matter because I and my pack full of comfort walked among pink blossoms on a rugged shore in the adoration of a breathly breeze: a palm stroking my hair.

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