Photo by Justin Wolff
Point Reyes, Years After
Nancy Cherry
It was the road I was trying to recall–the way in
from the point to which I had drifted. Then the trail–
steep, rocky, desolate–to the sea. It still rises above
the bark of seals, silent ghosts–shadows winding
through cypress. I studied the grasses–rattlesnake
grass, wild oat, herringbone of wheat, plantain dressed
in its tutu. I studied the pelicans gliding over the sea.
I studied dew weighing down thatch, and we reached down
together to touch–was it a wildflower? You said its name.
At twelve, I wanted to be torn from the earth–to let
the North wind carry me away with the gulls and geese
over snags of abandoned almond trees, over the rooftops
of people I did not know. I believed everything in captivity
died–blue-bellied lizards from the field, hand-sized turtles
that lived briefly on the plastic island with the fake tree.
I wanted a taste of sky. But the wind refused to take me.
Below this point, elephant seals converse–a ratchet
of caution or joy, they waddle and flop together.
This is the Pacific–murky with kelp and cold–its deeper
mysteries obscured by what is known. This sand-
scalloped horizon could break loose with a shiver
from the earth’s core. On the road back, names return–
globe clover, owl clover, thrift. Two fawns in the grass
turn their heads to watch, ears upright as question marks.
Nancy Cherry
It was the road I was trying to recall–the way in
from the point to which I had drifted. Then the trail–
steep, rocky, desolate–to the sea. It still rises above
the bark of seals, silent ghosts–shadows winding
through cypress. I studied the grasses–rattlesnake
grass, wild oat, herringbone of wheat, plantain dressed
in its tutu. I studied the pelicans gliding over the sea.
I studied dew weighing down thatch, and we reached down
together to touch–was it a wildflower? You said its name.
At twelve, I wanted to be torn from the earth–to let
the North wind carry me away with the gulls and geese
over snags of abandoned almond trees, over the rooftops
of people I did not know. I believed everything in captivity
died–blue-bellied lizards from the field, hand-sized turtles
that lived briefly on the plastic island with the fake tree.
I wanted a taste of sky. But the wind refused to take me.
Below this point, elephant seals converse–a ratchet
of caution or joy, they waddle and flop together.
This is the Pacific–murky with kelp and cold–its deeper
mysteries obscured by what is known. This sand-
scalloped horizon could break loose with a shiver
from the earth’s core. On the road back, names return–
globe clover, owl clover, thrift. Two fawns in the grass
turn their heads to watch, ears upright as question marks.