Morro Rock, a volcanic monolith, one of nine sisters next to Morro Bay. I remember summer visits, running up the red-painted walkway under the
always-leaves of her lone avocado tree. The view from grandmother’s sunroom bay window was like a photograph.
On a clear day by the rock, I watch falcons fly. Peregrines, from its peak never come down, only out and back, hunting other birds, catching, returning. They disappeared when I was young, but have since returned - the almost extinct, surviving on an extinct volcano.
for the next swell
counting on the wind