Here by the water the only constant
is the wind, the waves behave as if they
couldn’t be bothered to make themselves known
against the rock. A fellow nearby looks intently
at The Gate while his beloved sits in silence,
chin in hand, waiting for the answer that should come
to her at any moment. This bench is dedicated to the
public service of a city councilman, who from this spot
shall look upon the Bay forever, contemplating the
shifting nature of the world he left behind.
This is the day I will record the argot of the shaman
preparing his evening magic by a low fire,
a squirrel rising up from a rocky windbreak,
the clatter of small drums,
the snap of kite tails and unintelligible
harmonies celebrating sunshine. Ballooned yachts
criss-cross the horizon, white sails whipping halyards
taut — a flock of gulls straddling the updrafts–
white wings, distant whitecaps, a white cotton
candy sky, a white dog passing,
the white socks of the walkers,
the white lace gown you wore last night,
the bed a Rohrschach in white.
The Buddha never shifts his gaze.