Morning Pescadero Walk

Happy to have lugged binoculars in a second-hand carry-on, I turn to study the rosy colored bird sunning himself on the roof of our bungalow. Two steps out of our drive already brings a reward to a morning's wandering .  Later, my battered old bird book reveals a simple name for the cheery visitor: house finch.

The pulverized dirt of the Pescadero road feels soft on my feet; sun warms my shoulders and another Baja day begins living up to its promise of beauty and ease.  Down a narrow footpath I hear the approaching steps of an early surfer. The tardy surfers man their chosen observation point judging the break of the surf. Those who have already made their decision hurry along the path or are already perched in the sea like a flock of pelicans just past the breakline.

The surfers' eagerness mocks my idle wonderings.  I wonder whatever happened to Dr Roberts?  His normally warmly inhabited vacation oasis sits strangely quiet, a chain across the drive and two unused vehicles guard the grounds . My gaze, usually answered by Dr. Robert's gregariously hollered greetings falls on freshly painted, empty buildings.

A solitary wave cracks above the rest and calls my attention. I use the surfers' path to the beach. The high tide crests the beach's ridge wetting my feet. Tumultuous shore waves dare me to enter and answer the call to play amongst them. But I, who know the current's treacherous ways have already made my decision to turn a deafened ear to their call.

I watch a solitary line of pelicans skimming the water's surface. Like the surfers, they eye each wave's crest; are they fishing, or merely playing " who can get closest without wetting a wing"?

As they turn
rising above the horizon,  .

I see words on the page
of a single haiku