I sip coffee, stumble along a familiar path,
scan the horizon for tell-tale whale spouts,
pods of dolphins, the occasional otter.
Twisted cypress concede to ocean winds,
tilt precariously over railings, dirt trail
sparsely sprinkled with morning walkers.
Waves slosh ashore, sculpting vanishing sand.
Shredded fog tumbles inland,
forms itself into faces, fantastical creatures.
White-capped surf slams ragged coves,
rugged bluff of distant Point Lobos,
spews lacy spindrift.
Sun slides above poppies,
sky lupine, illuminates Inspiration Point,
glittering peaks of Palo Corona.
Silent morning, dark sky barely starting to color.
Moon fragment floats between cypress trunks,
disappears behind sand dunes, slides into ocean.
This is my quiet time, productive solitude
before rumble of passing cars, keening hawks,
children calling when neighbors waken.
Metaphor raises a cautious head.
Poetry sneaks out from under thin shadows.
Fingers transcribe what the muse whispers.