(In the manner of Liu Tzung-Yuan, 8th century)
Redwoods, tethered in huckleberry bush, creak above the shore.
East winds, ocean-salted, make the pine canopies scrape and yaw.
Currents chafe the sand spit at the river’s mouth.
A silver sun pours molten white on Pacific waves,
coruscating the horizon with gossamer and shimmer.
A wheeling seagull makes no cry, yields to an eddy.
When the bell buoy sounds,
it is my lone soul.
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