Nothing
separates us/me
from the sealion. I catch his breath-scent.
If I don’t hear the ocean next to my pillow,
all is not well in the world.
The small stone that I swear was gold,
I stuffed into the seawall—
The ocean said it was hers.
Mink skitters along the rock wall,
startling the dog.
How many fish have looked up at me
looking down at them?
How many fish have seen me
tossing wish rocks from my porch into the sea?
—Vivian Faith Prescott (The Dodge)