Often as I walk up the beach to my poem-writing place
some words have formed in my mind:
the crystallization of a thought sparked by a pattern of seaweed
or wave
or remnants of beach fire
Today nothing of the sort had formed
and I was preparing to meet that emptiness
maybe for once letting my pen
my nerves
my thoughtless knowing
drive the poem into being
or allow it to take wing
And then I spied three large white seagulls
crouching on an ephemeral island of rocks
as I approached I saw they were not seagulls but a trio of pelicans
aesthetically posing with their long orange beaks
pure white otherwise
They scrapped my void-plans
called attention to themselves
made themselves into my poem
If the Divine wants to shape
my aspiration to formlessness
into a subject
who am I to argue?
Composed July 1, 2025