I tell myself the freeway sounds like waves, imagine sand, shells, all the spent coins of the ocean. Nothing helps. Those cars aren’t surf, and this isn’t make-believe. I’m a thousand miles inland, backed against mountains, backed against the next bill due, commuting with all the others: kids to school, myself to work, adding it up to some purpose. Long-haul trucks groan and echo down the canyon, their air brakes sounding like harbor ferries . . . or they would if I could ignore things. The way the yard ignores snow and keeps growing. The way the moon keeps up its schedule. The way tides go out, roll in, out west of here, whether I’m there to listen to the ocean or not.


Photo By: janetfo747 New-Nice As It