By Mike O’Connell 

where the drifting woods congregate
crowding crabs, sand or otherwise,
where the sea lions cruise for snacks,
where sailors begin there journeys
outwards, into the deeper seas,
we stash our stones for strangers’
eyes to find, and the crows can’t
look away. the wind carries salt scents,
seaweed decomposing with
that tense, green smell, invasive,
metallic, boring deep into the
senses, strangely familiar,
yet alien to the touch.