Laughter, like the skidding, ecstatic dance of the back tires of high-finned 50s cars, screeching to a jagged halt at rainy intersection roads. Yeah, man! Like zig-zag fingernail-scratches on a sooty windowpane, letting the sun-friend lift your veil, set a dash to your bones cut with cold gold, your heart flares up out of the sleep-shadows

To become an ornate old barnacle-augmented grey sea-wolf wharf-piling, tall throne of gulls and crows; that is a lazy, broken-spiral looping of crow-caws, song of the dry sage, ancient wood-creatures, shiny black feathers crisp with sun. Black color and the sun rush into each other's arms for a very happy fuck; their caws barbwire lyric, tree-bark waking cry as they settle on their beasts of burden, hundreds of half-stripped Douglas Fir logs in a boom out on the cold sea harbor monster. Boom! Flash! I am streaked through with Ec! Sta! Sy!

My love for you bursts its lightbulb into smithereens of sunlight strewn along the Outer Harbor. High tiers of clouds way down over Port Angeles and the Cascade range, dimmer southward. This sacred plot of earth, this hill behind me venerable as any hill on earth now and in history or myth, Golgotha in springtime, Parnassus in springtime, Pisgah in springtime, spring in this one's fists, as spirited as any and every spring, including the spring from which springs spring, the reins/weight of roots keep the happiness of trees in bloom, in bud; the eye-opening of flower, from raging its huge happiness skyward. And then fragrances are tippled off to the wind, and an Adam passing is transfixed and rooted to joy.

Where I walk, stripping a grass-path with bare feet toughened, groaning ecstasy striding slowly into/over rough sea-rock faces, over driftwood knots, thin ground-creeper loops, brambleberries' tiny serrated stems a luxurious scratching of an itch in the feet, distant cry of an itch deeper than the bowels, kneaded by the joy of feet in gravel, on bark still left, fresh driftwood not yet bone, not yet dry with the salt-wisdom of deep cold sea-riding, long adventures of wind told by night and by morning, and cascades of hot summer sun driving a ruthless hand of earth-love down deep to the sea-tree's heart, and framing its soul to be wind-carpets for gulls. Under the body's full weight, barefoot striding, strolling.