Call of the Woodsmen

Leaf-lush

primal joy,

a magnet

drawing woodsmen

step by wide-eyed step.

Forrest bound

and snug,

wound tight

but somehow natural

in tree-cloaked garb.

and still

in the magic

of the first light

the world

as we were meant to see it:

waking,

alive

without the glare

of a cruel sun,

autumnal

and ripe for the taking. 

Point Lobos

Like an exotic woman

Flashing plumage

For a mate she’ll never take

The coast is beauty, unforgiving.

Indifferent to the good children

Marveling at the starfish

In the bristling tidal pools,

Mocking its own beauty

Choked thick with seaweed.

Wave after wave cascade

A gorgeous wall of glassy blue

Thrashing like a fist

Heartless foam on sharp sand

Lurking undersea

The currents keep the seals away

Hills stuffed with scruff of trees

No traction sliprock hike to speak

As birds gawk from faraway stones.

Squint into the wind

At the fleeting phantom unseen otter

But can’t tell the dolphins

From the weeds.