Bristol Point

I drive the long cut around the nose
of Bristol Point, gravity pulls me
to the overlook, traffic passes behind,
down into the switchbacks.

From the overlook I see a fishing boat,
lights in Rubble Beach hazed by fog,
an ocean hiding it's purpose.
Behind me a fog-muffled crack and rumble

of rockslide, and Bristol Point closes
the switchbacks, heals the long cut,
covers the scar. Downhill traffic stops,
some U-turn and head back to Lincoln City.

Flashing lights weave into the switchbacks,
roadside talkers cluster and share melancholy.
Another crack and rumble, and rocks tumble
with the gleeful abandon of a child,

free for the first time in a million years.
Bristol Point sticks its nose in the air
and gravity pulls on the overlook.