Praying the Hours at Elkhorn Slough

God. Ocean. Sunrise.
Whatever I am sitting here between,
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:
After the last
       silent owl-rise.

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