Every morning first thing
I walk to the end of the avenue
to the edge of the ephemeral boundary
dividing my two worlds
A thin margin of error divides
wet and dry sand
a trick a trajectory of the moon
first water above then below, crabs looking for toes,
famished birds driving down frightened fish,
kelp clinging, growing, decaying, we are
all fighting for space
at the water’s edge, the cliff’s edge,
the edge dividing my two worlds
I nod to the neighbors, mostly strays at
this new hour and others like me
holding the rest of the day paralyzed, marked
by the watery decision to be made here
Into the water now, later, or tomorrow?
My chosen world always over
lapping the one chosen for me
I wonder what it would be like
to be an inland someone else
to not care about the quality
at this place or any other
Could I be anybody anywhere
going about those other things?
That thought never lasts long
So why consider it ever again?
- Tom Bolo surfs, works and appreciates the wild coast of Monterey Bay, California.
