Smell of salt upon the sand,
endless stream of pelicans
tracing waves, translucent
blues and greens returned
from golden times, as we
absorbed the sun, charged
the naked flesh, strangers
off the gravel road
to San Quintin in the 60s –
when there were no signs
of people, except for you
and I – philosophizing,
boiling it all down
to a native awareness
we hoped to cultivate.
– for Peter Forsch
drycrikjournal 