damp woolen clothes

More and more frequently I explore dreams of
damp woolen clothes  and wind tossed rain
at the  cold, mist-shrouded foothills,
of the Oregon Coast Mountains, covered with Douglas Fir , huge ferns, and moss
running north and south with craggy volcanic fingers
pointing west into the sea
damp cold clothes trying to keep the heat in from
walking along barren promenades,
rain swept-clean, taking errant sand back to the beach
no one walks in this weather
no flotsam to collect, green glass balls from foreign fishing nets long gone
all is clouds and windswept rain, obscuring the horizon
the tide is slack
but there are no clam diggers this morning
wading in the shallows , or surf fishermen,
in chest-waders struggling against the tides, or old men in lawn chairs
sitting at the high tide mark lines thrown far and stretched taught by the undertow
all not here today
empty streets and shuttered shops
a lie told in the winter
to hide the summer’s tide of gawkers and walkers,
and salt-water taffy eating mommas
struggling with children, trying to run free
a leash? Really? Do you think that restrains the inner struggle?
today the gulls sit irregularly on the beach
hunkered down faces into the wind
whites and grays with yellow beaks
the wind is too strong for them to whirl on the updrafts’
to strong to  fish for small meals in the shallows
obscured by wind-blown waves and sea foam
cold wind in my face, turning around walking backwards
Thinking about my thinking
I know this vision is too idyllic, fanciful.
But, the view of foggy craggy mountains and rain swept beaches
stands in stark contrast
to the view out my window

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