Flying

Sanderling skitter along the beach,
marine air is heavy with fermenting
kelp, thudding surf, a caspian tern's
craggy call. I turn my back

on ocean dust and drive a twisty road
to mountains where air thins and brittles,
varied thrush trills pierce
the doug-fir. I steer through a storm

that smells of heavy snow and down
the other side to sage and juniper,
and a crease straight gravel road
through twisty food and dusty wit,

and that's why I don't enjoy flying
like tuna in a can.