the snow looked at me longingly, from under its cotton duvet,
and the fruit of avocado trees drooped, like children not picked for the team,
just next to the corner where fish tacos are served extra picante
and the churning waves forgot all about the forecast,
lean with surfers, waders, and fishermen all:
the sea lions are under-garbed, their luminous
rubber sheenskins built for nothing less
than what would pass in the mediterranean,
and the snow
is picking up force now, boardwalk-battering,
promenade-pattering, as an elderly clerk in a fedora
slants his head down at a forty-five degree angle,
to catch furious flakes on his giraffe-like tongue,
and a gaggle of nursery school ducklings
skates without grace, or skates,
on a freshly iced curb,
and three baffled ocean scientists
on lunch break from their lab at scripps
scan the corner of neptune and blair
for a trio of missing spectacles,
and the waves are now positively growling
still lean with surfers, waders, and fishermen all:
bird rock pretends a granite squawk,
as its bountiful beak gets hypothermic,
and all the chinese tourists on a bus
sliding along prospect place
wipe frost from their fancy lenses,
and i decide to look back at the snow,
less longingly
-but with grateful contempt.
