Day creeps in slowly
like a child, uncertain, demure.
The disheveled hillsides yawn
themselves back to thirst again
in the dry, January sun.
A nighthawk, warblers, and sparrows
choir themselves out of the quiet night –
a morning dissonance at war
with nothing but hunger.
Down the slow road into town
a woman pegs up laundry, old school,
to dry in the hot ocean winds.
Eucalyptus, snapdragons, and primrose compete
for what little water is left
after years of drought.
Shakes of uncommitted clouds
stoop to the margins of
warm sky. That’s where the colors are,
a shock of tapioca time in love
with the lilacs, blooming only
for themselves to be the judges.
The town at the bottom of the hill
smells of competing sea-salt
and cheap tourist breakfast.
Those ladies looked out of place
in their broqued jeans and high heels,
that push them up above the
flip-flop culture encroaching –
like the sea.
Runners, running, so many runners,
running apace and aloof as the uneven
shoreline. They are chased by
over-confident gulls and the sad
feeling they can’t outrun something.
But still the water dances with sun
and dreams and there is time.