A painter would pause this late afternoon
on Alameda beach, glimpsing paradise,
would be seized by insight and pull out
the brushes and palette
and begin to work quickly
because look how the clouds
are fattening up, gulping the light
right out of the sky,
existing only in tones and lines
but still there is a kind of diamond dazzle,
at times unblended in how it falls
on the buckwheat, the sticky monkey flowers.
A painter would have to dab short
quick strokes to show how this quickening
breeze wraps around
my shoulders, makes my hair fly up
with the kites and the water skiers’ parachutes.
I too sense a big moment, though my mind is blank,
fit only for hushed gazing
yet I feel a sumptuous intimacy
with gulls and wind and bay and buckwheat
that is quite solitary,
indeed can only be noticed
unattended.
