Tunnels, Tsunamis, and Fake Moby Dicks

My left hand is in a cast from surgery last week. Dr. Don'tcha Luvme sliced the carpal tunnel and released the guitar strings that help my hand make music. My right hand, one month post-surgery, is now the Big Bopper again. I've done little but piddle around and write a few poems. I have my eye on a gopher tunneling in the neighbor's driveway flower bed, perilously close to my own. The critter seems content to dine on the neighbor's poppies so far, but if he moves east two feet, he'll discover my scrumptious dahlias. Then I'm afraid he'll meet his end. Savor your poppies, little rodent.

Meanwhile, the photo today is of Morro Rock in the harbor of a small town called Morro Bay on the California coast near my home. Geologically, it's the core of an old volcano. Historically, it's half the size it was before entrepreneurs quarried it in the early 1900s. Spiritually, it's significant to the local Native American people, who are now the only ones who may climb it, except for a few rangers who track the rock's peregrin falcon population. Oddly, a tsunami from the Japanese earthquake entered the tiny harbor last month and destroyed some fishing boats.

Fish or Cut Bait

I’m through with you, log
Done hauled your ass
From hell to kingdom come
And still you won’t be moved
Been days I hunched here
In this dinghy thinking
I would reel you in
You beast
I was a fool
Believing you
Were some big fish
I hooked, dived deep
And running strong
You weren’t
No Moby Dick
I know and now
My arms be
Rubber bands
Of weariness
I cut my line
And point my bow
North for home
Across the green lake
Wiser
Free