April 4th, 1995

Near this grey pebbled beach, an inlet opens—
two creeks rushing to converge—
the farther one flows recently from its spring—
cold, loud, with insistence that is water
tumbling over sharp rocks at the bottom.

Cycling forward ever restless in motion
yet this afternoon—sun sends in shadows
in the nearby stream, clear waters covering
over the concave shapes in sedate little rows.

It is all silver when the waters meet—sputtering,
almost foaming over larger exposed rock—
there is more to be told of the brook
whose bed is narrower— thinking

Of friends and daughters separated by rivers
and oceans—my oldest girl away in Ireland—
today my birthday flowering and fading—
what gift could I bring—

Song undulating in the canyon above me
sent of bay laurel scratch of manzanita
spotting her crevices within miners grasses
with the blood of shooting stars.