This was last weekend, all Winter beachness, crisp, clear light, air cold enough for us to wear sweaters we haven’t seen in over a year, sweaters with jeans and sweats and bare feet as we ran on glassy beach, Anacapa, Santa Cruz and Santa Rosa islands clearly visible and doing their magic trick of seeming 20 feet away instead of 20 or so miles and once, as my eyes skimmed the horizon, I’m pretty sure I received San Miguel’s tiny image, but I couldn’t find it again. Dolphins made an appearance, kids wore themselves out runnning in an icy yet intoxicating ocean breeze as the tide, once again, became minus, exposing the ocean’s rough fingers and backbones and multi-colored baubles, her countless jewels. As I watched my family gallop and explore, I thought: this is what it means to benefit from the world, to be brought instantly awake in it, to know you are subject and mirror and student and guest and 100% home. And then I thought: there’s no poem in this? Really, PB? And so tonight I get busy.