Voices on the Wind Voices on Relaxation
FAR FOGGY MORNING by Dick Bakken Cape Alava Rainforest, Olympic Coast I wake to mists and the edge of this world, salt spray breezing into my face. Blurs wait flopped over rock solidified out around our ancient cove. Seals yearn like me, like these cloud-twisted branches of cedar . . . for the sun. We don’t shiver O will it come— but sprawl dozing with a heart and all. What we want is here from the fathoms swelling out as far as any of us can care. And you know full well—yes as these ancestral cormorants shriek and plunge— what that might be. So roll over on a jut and snore for now, pulse flung across a glyph—be it hand or star— slashed by some naked enchanter —while creation just crashes around us. What we want we don’t call with shouts or even a blink. We but arrive—true through the eternal breakers, scrambling steamy boulders they pound into sand. I lift up dawn-lit in an ongoing rain of pebbles splashing from that high hardened face you press breathless around—one whole mortality suspended by nothing but a few whited fingertips. Leap out!—kicking a skyful of scree and fossil to plummet the updraft—splishhhh!— into spectral swirls of seal light. What we want we already have. And O you know this is the haven where we come to that. See how a sun, our old blaze of song has beat, beat through these limbs twisted up here over the bubbled granite that before we crawled onto it lay no more solid than the foam ghosting off away from us into this day.