Monterey Bay
The armada had returned from the sea,
The lawyers, doctors, businessmen and such,
moored their sloops and yachts under
blue tarps and grey skies, returning to their
corner offices, while tourists claimed the beaches,
the gulls and seals the harbours.
Century old cypress trees slanted toward shore
testimony to relentless trade winds
creating askew geometry on craggy shorelines.
Restaurants on the wharf full as always.
Bored waiters offered up clam chowder to
passing crowds
hoping to lure them in, one by one,
to seafood meals in noisy rooms.
Commercial boats, their nets rolled on open
stern decks
still ply their trade heading for open sea
circled by raucous gulls
they disappear, absorbed by morning fog.
Vietnamese and Hispanics fish the pier
using squid as bait not knowing the English
names of things they catch.
Behind, the bike path streams a steady flow,
bikers, joggers, walkers, runners, families on
clumsy quadracycles labouring up small hills.
The sun clears through the noon fog, as a small
plane flies out over the bay.
Dedicated to John Denver
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