Dear Sylvia

I wait for you here with my coffee cup

and newspaper, and I watch the sea.

The dolphins head up the beach,

and in the evening scallop down.

The force of their numbers through surf

pushes toward the condo village,

past the gnashing mongrels gathered

on shore. The dogs collect every morning

to stalk grackles, whose molting feathers

stick out like charred trash or timbers.

Even if these grackles were crash sites,

only dogs would investigate.

Sylvia, I watch the dolphins skimming by

undulating, their splendid continuum

unbroken, water like silk shedding from

their slick gray backs.

Sylvia, I am still waiting for you

to notice me, turn toward my shining skin.

— Cathryn Hankla

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