Poem of the Month


Water aficionados
paddle, pedal or sail across
Moss Landing Harbor.

Weekend salts navigate
changing tides, disappear
within foggy billows.

The only sounds come
from cranky gulls,
clanking rigging, wet tackle.

Moving mist shrouds spectral kayaks,
ghostly canoes, fishermen wrapped
in bright yellow slickers.


September 2017


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