Today, there are no unwieldy Pelicans standing idled;
One legged, Yoga like, on the sea-worn pier post before me
The big brown birds have taken to the vibrant sky to feed and fly
Single-file they trace a languid wavering line over the sixth hole at Pebble
A silhouette of Mother Earth’s deepest green against a cadmium clear aquamarine
I count 19 of them!
Blue Angel’s, executing a precision flyover on the famed sixth fairway
A prehistoric pack of angular wings and aardvark needle beaks
Swooping down low, closely contouring the manicured grounds
Pulling up precipitously to avoid careening into the steep slope
Hugging the topography like mad pilots
Just off the elevated seventh tee;
Where many an errant hacker swing and seethe
They pass over a lonely Cypress orphaned on the point
Appendages cryptically crawling and leaning
Wind-driven east from the torment of the seaward trades
At one with the flight of a well struck hybrid
They clear the graveyard of dimples entombed,
In the tall fescues of the sixth’s famed ridgeline
Safely skimming over the rare still flag of on the plateau above
And they exit silent and weightless on buoyant thermals
Lifted out and over the coastal cliffs into infinity’s blue ether
Faint flock shadows
Flash off of the satin surface of Stillwater Cove
Then unexpectedly, their pointy beacons are liberated from chest and feathered crease
And the grip of gravity cease, like an ascending arrow’s last gasp;
Pausing-turning-reversing….
With the conviction of a Kamikaze, plunging towards the sea
A crazed chaotic Kerplunk ensues!
It’s raining birds….
Contorted malleable belly-flop bombs,
Splattering …. Submerging….Sub-seafaring
Swiftly to surface
Gluttonous Gular spilleth over with Mullet, Silverbacks, and Herring
South across the waters expanse
Occasional white billows site the distant shoreline and draw the eye
Point Lobos, perfectly visible, frames the all of Carmel Bay
The ancient Cypress’ of Alan’s Loop and Trentepohlia Aurea lie dull and dormant today
As the unseasonable warmth and calm of the sea lead the mind astray
Portside of the Lobos Point, soft filtering sunlight drapes the gray Monastery tower gold
A linear spit of sand resides below the Carmelite convent
A verdant Fish Knoll and the rust tinctured shoulders of the Santa Lucia foothills hug the sea
While Whistler’s crooked barn graces the peaceful pastures along the Riley's lazy ranch road
Today my good Sisters, is a good day to shed the Brown Scapular
Come out from behind the vestibule in non-compliance
Hide your Habit’s and let your hair down
Break with reverential silence
Chase away your eremitic shadows
Scale the cloister walls
Place your discalced feet deep within the warm white sands of Monastery Beach
and allow the great waters of Carmel Bay to dilute thy misanthropy!