Pigeon Point

— Diane L. Moomey

We leaned
against a railing that shook
beneath our jacketed elbows, leaned
watching dolphins arc their ways
past us toward the beach behind
as if nothing on earth or sea
were more important and of course,
nothing is. We leaned

against a wooden fence at the land’s
end of our world, a split rail
hanging over iceplant and crooked trail,
watched Niked hikers follow it down
to an improbable beach below. We spoke,

facing whitecaps, of what is terribly
important to us in our seventh decade,
spoke facing the place where the dolphins
had come through, fought
as we sometimes do, thought

they could have been porpoises.

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