*At Lovers Point, Pacific Grove*
In the hush before dawn’s first light, we stand
Where earth meets the endless swell of the sea,
The fog, like a scholar’s ancient cloak, enfolds
Each whisper of wind, each breath we release.
Pippin at my side, sentinel of the dawn,
His soft coat gathers the chill of the mist,
Yet in his eyes, a warmth that defies
The cold—steady as the tide’s eternal pull.
Above, the gulls cry, spectral voices
In the gray, their wings tracing histories
Of cliffs and coastlines, a cartography
Of salt and spray, ancient and ever new.
The seals call, distant echoes of life beneath,
Where kelp forests sway in rhythms only the deep
Can know. The air is thick with the scent of the brine,
And something sweeter—yeast and warmth, a promise
Of fresh bread, of coffee brewed in quiet kitchens,
Where day’s labor awaits, but not yet, not yet.
Here, we linger, suspended in the sacred
Embrace of place and moment, the world distilled
To fog, to scent, to sound—an erudite discourse
Of nature’s own design, a lesson in simplicity
And splendor, where even the most eloquent
Words fall silent, humbled by the sea’s soft roar.
