A walking distance from the town
Or a skip and jog over sage brush,
Undulating sand dunes and twigs of mangrove trees that hide the sea shore from 801 and other houses along Marion Ave,
There sits Gearhart beach and cove.
A place where three rivers converge
To flow as one into the ocean;
Here the Gearhart, Necanicum and Neawanna slowly bathe in each other’s fresh waters,
And like a bridal train gently snake as one river, a bride into the bosom of her salty Pacific groom.
Flotsam and jetsam in sundry array, shells of dead crab, sand dollars, snails, blobs of sea weed and globs of jellyfish left in the wake of night tides await early walkers sauntering
This peaceful Gearhart cove.
Various footprints on the sand describe each passer bye;
Scrawny sea gull pads, wriggly Paths of night crawlers, and, the more familiar man and “best friend” prints run from shore to the water;
The sands are littered with them, until the next waves sweep in and make a clean slate for a new set of visiting footprints.
I added mine to the many fresh prints, as I walked and picked desired shells and took pictures of abandoned flotsam.
How often, I mused, does one feel, (true or false), like the flotsam and jetsam now scattered ashore?;
Wafting and drifting in every which way,
Tossed by the currents of life to unknown shores,
To wait for the next tide or end ones journey as driftwood, a landmark on a beach for a season of time;
Bypassed by many, till retrieved as potential treasure by a lucky walker
Who envisions the hidden pearl within.
Then or sooner one finds new meaning, crafted anew, to suit a new home,
For we are more than driftwood,
Destined to rot on a beach or fuel a bonfires for a brief moment in time.