San Diego, 1967
A full moon dropped its gray glory
into high-blown pewter clouds.
Fishy air and black water churned
as grunion advanced in silver waves.
On the beach that March night,
we were like flower children
but for our straight shoulders,
our too-short hair.
We sang “Yellow Submarine”
and about President Johnson
“Waist Deep in the Big Muddy.”
A woman marine, two sailors
and a Red Cross worker
just back, we charged the billow
waving pillowcases and gathering
the shining, spawning fish
that dropped like lemmings
onto the sand.
Our bags filled with wriggling catch,
we stood staring west,
watched the moon on the water,
the wind keening like a piper.
This article appears in January 28, 2009.