God. Ocean. Sunrise. Whatever I am sitting here between, hello. *** Sea otter profile: backcurved, hooking the tide. Nothing so distinctive --so joyfully learned, wondrously greeted every salt-gift sighting. *** Lowtide wader talk. Coyote brush sun-scented and the seals hauled out. My low tide too but the breeze coming up says wake. Pray with one foot steady-placed, and then the other. *** Something has died. And the pleasant smell of chaparral cannot hope to cover it up. The chaparral must die and so must I --would we not also wish to leave something behind? *** At the last, four notes ascending their purple staff: marsh-water-dune-sky. After the last silent owl-rise.