Low Water

April 16, 2012

Last night, after the last ladies of FOF went home, I rode Bello to the river. I meditated while sitting on a grimy cement street-water inflow structure. The Egrets and Coots made themselves busy, down there, ankle deep in the low tide. Gulls cried, matching the screams of the riders at the Boardwalk, situated between me and the ocean. This is Santa Cruz. Unparalleled beauty mixed with a narrow-sighted disregard for that same beauty. I see more wildlife here than in Portland but I also see more human shit and needles, I also have to put up a shell protecting me from unwanted solicitations, but then again I am unfazed by anything and owe that tolerance to this town. Mix it all up Santa Cruz.
And so mixed feelings should not come as a surprise. And yet they were, when they came, in a wash, while cross-legged with eyes closed.
Medium height, blond, directed like an arrow. But wobbly now. Stinging. Wounding. Without even realizing it.

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