The Sea of Cortez does not
smell of bath salt or a nice
aroma candle called O cean Breeze.
No, that isn't what I remember.
I taste pungent smells of mackerel
being relieved of its skin and
grouper bones rotting in the sun.
Yes, and hear mad cackling of gulls.
Thieves of the oceans, mean
repulsive birds with souls
only pirates truly love or understand.
Swan diving seagulls steal food
daringly from anywhere, harboring
no guilt and no regret. Hunger compels them.
Today, these predators haunt me still.
Following salmon hundreds of miles
vultures on the prowl, the Columbia River
tricks them into my backyard memories.
The Sea of Cortez does not
smell of bath salt or a nice
aroma candle called O cean Breeze.
No, that isn't what I remember.
I taste pungent smells of mackerel
being relieved of its skin and
grouper bones rotting in the sun.
Yes, and hear mad cackling of gulls.
Thieves of the oceans, mean
repulsive birds with souls
only pirates truly love or understand.
Swan diving seagulls steal food
daringly from anywhere, harboring
no guilt and no regret. Hunger compels them.
Today, these predators haunt me still.
Following salmon hundreds of miles
vultures on the prowl, the Columbia River
tricks them into my backyard memories.