A poem by Jon Obermeyer. I grew up in this beach. As did my grandmother and our ancestors.

Arroyo Burro

It’s best to arrive

at shadow hour,

morning or evening,

when the sun,

passing east to west,

leaves this coastal fold

in obscurity: creek,

chalky cliff and slough,

a penumbra’s hue

along the folding sea.

The swell is near-born,

the breeze a westerly,

the offshore islands

buffer and barricade

to any larger peril.

I’ve known the place

since tidepools,

starfish and anemones

on a foggy field trip

morning, rooting myself

among the corduroy

formations of jagged rock

you don’t see at high tide,

a hidden paradise.