The Russian River unrolls in front of me
opening its mouth wide to the sea
the youthful harmony of its currents
collapsing into dying eddies.

Ocean whitecaps break to my right
against the rocky shoals.
It’s high tide, and some escape
to push upstream into the river’s maw.

Squadrons of white pelicans descend
to glide just inches above the
river’s rippled surface
wide wings flirting with the water.

They dominate the river’s surface
ceding occasionally to nimbler terns
energetically flapping their wings
in practiced evasive maneuvers. 

I hear a dozen different birds
calling from the tree-lined banks,
staccato chirps, kir-kur-kus, and squeaky whistles,
but none are familiar like the squeals of the gulls.

The skies have been overcast for days now,
a grey mist obscuring the rocky outcrops,
faint horizon marked only by new shading
as the slate-dark sea meets a graphite sky.

The hawks feign disinterest, floating high
above my Adirondack chair
its inherent awkwardness compounded
by the gusting Pacific winds.

I think it’s time for a second coffee
and perhaps a piece of pie.