Seven in the Morning

In here it’s seven o’clock.
Out over the Pacific light hangs
in the white corner of a sheet of cloud.
I can just make out the figure of a woman bent down.
Her hair’s blown;
strings of brown seaweed whip past.

From last night’s rain
the sand is pocked and gouged.
There’s the scent of crabs or mud.
The ocean swell is too full
lumping this way, that, pickling sharks.

Behind the house light green seagrass
gives off a curry smell
that butts dully with the air.
Next door the paper gets delivered
with a stuffed thud.
The woman’s disappeared.
Two streets back a dog yaps, another barks.