O, Tutka Bay, you give us silence
and the opposite of silence:
Seashells turning eager ears toward
their teacher, the deep and brilliant sea.
Rain investigating pine needles
all night long with millions of miniature
magnifying glasses. Mosses drinking dew
with countless tongues. Mountains
like elephants, remembering
everything. This is what you give:
A yellow moon, almost full, holding
its pitted face up to the dark side of the earth,
the earth tipping its white hat to the sun
just long enough to show its hand
of Northern Lights arcing across
the whole dome of the sky
yet leaving space enough between the lines
for a tub overflowing with bioluminescent
poets, each in his or her own way,
composing odes to Tutka Bay.
—Dinah
Berland
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