The seagulls look indignant,
or maybe it’s just me,
at the hard pellets spewing
from a solitary grey cloud at the end of May.
I’m here for sun and warmth and the pelican’s amusement,
sanderlings who dart for sandcrabs in the receding surf,
boys eyeing each other across the taut stretch of volleyball net,
shoulders husky and strewn with sweat,
hot with the greasy smell of suntan oil,
kids with dads and pails,
surfers and wave-induced euphoria.
Not this damp grey day.
Not this—I should have worn my long-sleeved shirt—
pallid somber day.
Not this dull chrome sea,
mountains miffed in clouds,
two crows digging in the sand,
feathers dead black,
limping on this sad,
nonbikinied, intemperate day.
sun spoking through,
the crows and I
squawk in relief,
partner up for a dance,
© by Ruth Gooley.
Used with the author’s permission.