Sand daubers seem to skate
on the sheen left by retreating
surf. They move like freshly
hatched spiders. They were
called to be birds. We
were called to be humans
and have names for birds
and everything else.
Yesterday, my love and I
crossed over the Humptulips
River, glancing past bridge
beams at a big muddy flow.
Today, we're watching
gray waves, looking at
shivering stiff foam stacked
near driftwood. We're
saying human things.
It turns out we want
more and less of life
simultaneously. Same
old story. The surf's steady
roar can be used as a
lullaby noise or heard as
the indifferent voice of reality:
that thing against which
we bump up.
hans ostrom 2020
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