Birds Over Bolsa Chica Beach
Direction must mean
a selection of a presupposed destination--
the link between where we are--
and where we will be.
Choice in the matter has had way--
the plans are made,
all is ready.
Turning left, not right
will get us there
to the just too hot sand
of Bolsa Chica Beach.
The destination is a preservation
of choices made before,
of hot sand & cool wind
and the cold churning noisy ocean
slamming against the feeble yells
of children and their children
parading the beach.
Not the next, or the last, but this time
four large birds, not five,
row across my inverted view
dividing the angled sky
into a neat triangular upper third of view.
There should be a fifth
to make two to a row,
but there are only four--
the one in lead seems to be sculling
in an embracing pattern
of pointing to break the wind
and towing each flared row of birds
as if a boat dragging along
the waves that trail behind.
The lead bird pulls the air
down and back,
then each in turn, and
again, the movement flows back
with the last, last
as if there were a partner across the way.
The lead soars, then
each in turn soars
down each row,
with the last, last
as if there were a partner across the way.
Palpable movement
entrancing beyond memory or view,
black against the sky blue
of Bolsa Chica Beach.
With direction, distinction, determination--
a purpose that is there -- plan & choice
made long ago...
made at a rising current of the wind.
The bowl of sensation is within ourselves--
the import -- the purpose -- the wind
flies from inside us.
Supposition is the sand upon
whose purpose we ride
the rowing birds
across Bolsa Chica Beach;
to destinations that are not our own,
and can never be.
We have not dreamed their dreams,
nor they ours.
Los Angeles
1978
Los Angeles Series
©1978 Birds Over Bolsa Chica Beach— Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.
a selection of a presupposed destination--
the link between where we are--
and where we will be.
Choice in the matter has had way--
the plans are made,
all is ready.
Turning left, not right
will get us there
to the just too hot sand
of Bolsa Chica Beach.
The destination is a preservation
of choices made before,
of hot sand & cool wind
and the cold churning noisy ocean
slamming against the feeble yells
of children and their children
parading the beach.
Not the next, or the last, but this time
four large birds, not five,
row across my inverted view
dividing the angled sky
into a neat triangular upper third of view.
There should be a fifth
to make two to a row,
but there are only four--
the one in lead seems to be sculling
in an embracing pattern
of pointing to break the wind
and towing each flared row of birds
as if a boat dragging along
the waves that trail behind.
The lead bird pulls the air
down and back,
then each in turn, and
again, the movement flows back
with the last, last
as if there were a partner across the way.
The lead soars, then
each in turn soars
down each row,
with the last, last
as if there were a partner across the way.
Palpable movement
entrancing beyond memory or view,
black against the sky blue
of Bolsa Chica Beach.
With direction, distinction, determination--
a purpose that is there -- plan & choice
made long ago...
made at a rising current of the wind.
The bowl of sensation is within ourselves--
the import -- the purpose -- the wind
flies from inside us.
Supposition is the sand upon
whose purpose we ride
the rowing birds
across Bolsa Chica Beach;
to destinations that are not our own,
and can never be.
We have not dreamed their dreams,
nor they ours.
Los Angeles
1978
Los Angeles Series
©1978 Birds Over Bolsa Chica Beach— Joseph W. Yarbrough
Reproduction prohibited without written permission.