Coast Turn off the engine. Wait till the surfer van slams shut and vibrates down stereo road, then open the doors to the breeze. Gulls cruising onshore winds alight on trash cans, or waddle the sand, patrolling for edibles dropped by humans. Out on the rumpled lame' of the bay, the otters slide, licorice strips bobbing between uncertain sequins, waves that pull the eye to sunlight, first for joy, then for glint too harsh to watch as a seascape. Lie back, eyes shut to blearing light. The young waves shove and giggle past the rocks for the sand: such schoolgirl catechumens dressed white to kneel then turn back again, whispering beneath the chantry of the shore... the shore...the shore...the shore...the shore.... R. S. Carlson First published in The West Wind 4(Spring 1995):10-11.

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