from the time I shuck my flip-flops
at the end of the path till I return.

God’s a terrific listener, she of the many
gods and goddesses who bless

these islands—the divine, the universe,
the beloved, great spirit, ke akua—

she of cooling breezes that accompany
my every step over softest sand—

Mahalo for the excellent beach, God.
Always perfect in every weather.

And since I have no immediate worries
with which to pester her, cruising as I am

through paradise and all, I’ll sometimes make
a request just to see if she’s paying attention—

Maybe one intact cowrie?—and holy moly,
if within ten steps one doesn’t appear

among the detritus of coral bits and
shell parts, its rounded brown back

a mini version of the honu who call these
waters home. Mahalo! I call to the sky,

hoping she’s still listening, which, of course,
she is. And as I gawk at the crazy high

winter waves rearing up like horses
all agitated and white-foamy, before

galloping their way to swamp the sand,
I say, Rockin’ amazing sea today, God.

And there, tilting shoreward in the milky
blue waves, she aims her big old divine

laser pointer toward three large brown
discs just below the surface—great

sea turtles surfing the big swells like it’s
no big deal, diving to nibble some tasty limu.

Onetwothreefourfive honu—wow, God!—
And as I turn to walk back from whence

I came—fourfivesixseveneight turtles
bouncing around—nineteneleventwelve.

And lookie there, God! (as if she doesn’t
know this): one hauled-out honu high

up on the soft sand, its humpy shell
drying to a gentle pony brown, eyes

closed, taking a snooze. Where’d she
come from? She wasn’t there a few

minutes ago when I walked by.
Nice one, God, I think so as not to

startle one of her finer incarnations.
Sleep well, big girl, I whisper, walking

by at a respectful distance. I smile
as one great eye opens and a blessing

of light raindrops falls upon us—
Mahalo, honey, I will—

just to say that, of course,
she got the message.