By Dave Smith
At dusk and long-distance they are the mouths
to another world, caves of silence that speak
only in light and, tonight, family packed
for home travel, we take a last, slow route
over sand the sea has been all day cleaning.
At driftwood the children stop, first veering
off wordlessly, and kneel to know some texture
of wood, or stand merely to dream themselves
freely into the gathering shadows of the land.
As we go ahead of them, we imagine their hands
collecting what seems to have waited for each,
shells, starfish, agates like a lover's eyes.
Then we also drift apart, each following deep
runnels the tide has left, and after a while
I see you hunched on a rock, almost part of it.
The light is almost gone and the wind chills me
so I think of my father's whistle, how it called
the sundered shadows of a family into the house.
But do not whistle now, through the lips he made,
for somehow we have come to where we may be apart
and whole. Instead, I walk farther to the north,
until you are all taken into shapes of this place.
I did chores in the morning, then when the thunder started in the afternoon I tried to teach myself to play HeroClix (don't even ask). We took a walk early because of the storm forecast, but we ended up getting very little rain. Then we had barley stew and Irish cheddar for dinner for Bloomsday.
I rewatched Obi-Wan Kenobi and Ms. Marvel with Cheryl around our Thursday Zoom chat with friends; I can live without more Ben but I would like another young Leia series! And I can't wait to see Kamala's connections to the mystery people. Low tide at Seahurst Beach in Seattle: