Cactus grows leeward.
Naked bodies lie
random and sexless as birds
while the ocean's yeasty arms rush my shoes.
Five pelicans ascend with
the cliff's quick lift
into the child's idea of a squadron.
A pair of Navy jets erupt like steam from a cappuccino machine
heading out low over the Pacific;
wing tips nearly touch like sprinting lovers.
poem - J. Freed