Tuesday Poem

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.

by Tara K. Shepersky
Echotheo Review