Pelicans at Manhattan Beach

Over the small surf, steam is rising
or fog or mist – whatever you call it
when the Humboldt current rubs frigid arctic melt
against sand hot enough to burn your feet

on a windless day. Layers of white vapor
part suddenly on a skimming brown form.
Another. Two more.

I forget why I’m here.

They disappear through eddying steam
toward the invisible headland, the thunder of surf
over the breakwater. They trace the hidden
contours of the coast

as I would trace the lines of my own palm
in the dark.

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