Abstract
I rode in the lull between cold fronts,from the Arcata Marsh marked an arcaround the north Bay to the road's end.The Pacific rumbled out of sight,green-patched sand dunes between us,flowerless in this season of washed-out colorsand storms lashing from the west.A breeze blew sand onto the road stretchingstraight to the spit's end, marked by a jetty,where the ocean rose in mesmeric waves.On a day like this, a breaker swept a womanover the wall, the undertow carried her away.On a day like this, last November, a stroke struckmy poet friend and his lines came to an end.In the year just born, pedaling was allI allowed to matter. Rain-washed air, pale sky, blackasphalt. The dunes will bloom: sand verbena's pinkand yellow clusters, trumpet-shaped beach morning glory,white yarrow will paint bright strokes on the gray-gold sand.
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