LITTLE MISS ON BIG SUR

From fifteen thousand feet,
the elegant round of backlit morning dew,
thickening cloudy malaise,
masks ghost-whispering sandpipers at play.
Their pecking wild call,
unheralded against the craggy moors,
weather beaten by sun and sea,
mounting Dianna’s chariot
tucking noon beams into ancient coves
mist and fate,
caught expressive, yet removed.
T’is the outside world,
a myth endured,
till weekend trips eclipse
the cymbal crash of restless surf.

We are not amused,
and liken this change-less paradise
to each small and supple bend of my lover’s back
trampled underfoot
bewildered as a pack of midday galloping rhinos
beach balls bobbing,
toward undisturbed, forgetful sands.
@Nick Zegarac 2008 (all rights reserved).