Sand burned our feet as Jeanne Lupton and I walked toward the water on Ocean Beach. It was a rare day in San Francisco. No fog, light breeze, temperature in the low seventies.
Low tide, exposing pieces of broken sand dollars, crabs, and blobs of jelly fish. The breeze lifted vapor into the air and masked the beach with mist. I combed the beach, always looking for nature’s gifts, and found a stone lined with a fossil.
We sat on a log. My cell phone rang. It was father. He was waiting for Meals On Wheels and they have not shown up. I called them. They said they are running late with the delivery.
The sea’s haunting voices rushed into my left ear. Its ten thousand echos pounded my mind. A dog rushed into the waves to retrieve a stick. Happy, happy.
Alas! Gone are the days when I would have rushed into the waves to retrieve a stick: the dog days are done….
Dear Jack,
Gee, I’m feeling triumphant because, though I’m not very good at hacking around, I found your blog. This is to admire you and Clara Hsu as medieval rimesters. Pretty deft stuff. And glad to see what Al Young looks like these days (well preserved). I knew him when he was editor of the U of Michigan undergraduate literary magazine.
Happy fireworks day and
best regards,
Joe