September, Inverness

Tomales Bay is flat blue in the Indian summer heat.

This is the time when hikers on Inverness Ridge

Stand on tiptoe to pick ripe huckleberries

That the deer can’t reach. This is the season of lulls—

Egrets hunting in the tidal shallows, a ribbon

Of sandpipers fluttering over mudflats, white,

Then not. A drift of mist wisping off the bay.

This is the moment when bliss is what you glimpse

From the corner of your eye, as you drive past

Running errands, and the wind comes up,

And the surface of the water glitters hard against it.