In the late winter afternoon, we stroll
across the trestle bridge, along the shore.
A sea otter calls out to her young who
have swum too far away. A crooning
bird-like call I've never heard but you
recognize, point out the little swimmers.

A young woman takes pictures of them,
tells us she's been watching them grow, looks
kindly upon our awe. Everyone we pass says
Merry Christmas. A father kneels down
to show the otters to a child. This holiday.
we are far from being alone, and glad.
 
Around the dock where people plunge
on New Year's day, otters are fishing.
We hear them breathe, underneath us,
as they scuttle for algae and fish. One
swims out, a silver slither in its mouth.
It chomps loudly, gulps its good fortune.

Sounds of the city are lost here. Splash
of inner tide on shore, snowberry
and hawthorn red, blackberry and fir.
Myriad winter colors I cannot imitate
with yarn or thread. I must be here
to find them, my arm in yours.


© by Judith Heron.
Used with the author's permission.