The Sea Ranch, Sonoma coast, California

We set off for our just-before-sunset
walk with coats and hats and cameras,
the kind that live now on our phones,

but it is not until we are almost
at the trail that I remember
I have forgotten my glasses.

I do not go back for them.
There is enough light in this
soft focus world, and I am here

to listen more than see
the waves rolling in below
as we walk the blufftop trail.

The one who sees far better than I
searches for vintage points to
record in pixels the day’s last light,

though fog hanging on the horizon
has swallowed the sun. No colorful
sky show this evening. The marine

layer will likely overtake us in
a few hours. It is often the way
on this coast, but we don’t mind.

Whatever comes, we are happy
where we hear only bird sounds
and waves, the relentless sea

shushing at times and crashing
at others—unlike the city noises
that punctuate most of our lives.

This place puts us back together.
Each time we return home, we
find ourselves jarred by traffic

and too-close neighbors, by
barking and screeching not from
seals or birds of prey gliding

so close we can see the color
and curve of their lethal beaks.
We hate to leave the ocean for

our inland lives, though we know
this place waits for us, though
buzzards and hawks still circle,

swoop and dive, that sandpipers
play tag with waves at the waterline,
that the constant waves keep

coming and crashing, the tides
pulling in and out, in concert with
the moon. Our focus is always

soft here, gentled in a way it
cannot be in our everyday lives.
This place sets us back into

our bodies like those newly
arrived, eyes wide, blinking at
the greening wonder of it all.