o, holy night!
At the eastern edge of the estuary
The Widgeon floats and fishes
While Skimmers swoop and dive,
Piercing the smooth surface of the bay
Like the spines of a crown of thorns
Probing deeply through holy flesh
To purest life-nurturing blood;
And not to be counted out,
The Least Terns do their nightly dance,
Flitting and flying in balletic aeronautics,
Pausing on their plumed pilgrimage.
The tide is out, exposing
Saltmarsh Bird's Beak, Buckthorn,
Sedge, along with the invaders,
Wild Mustard and Pampas Grass
Nourished by streams and seeps;
And halophyte and neophyte together
For a corona of darkness,
Cradling heaven's earthly light,
Calming breathing things
To evening's reedy rest. Shalom
Reweaves the world in the shallows
Swathed in softest garments of gold,
And all sleeps in peace once more.
Liz McFadzean
On December 1 Dave and I went to Newport Beach to celebrate our son’s 34th birthday. We knew it would be a late night (for old folks like us) so we rented a room. This view was dusk over Newport Bay.
The view overwhelmed me with gratitude. I snapped a photo, as I often do to commemorate a special moment. And I stood and soaked in all the activity that a simple photograph couldn’t capture. But it was only later that I realized that in the background, all along the bay, there were homes, and not one light was on. Where were all the people? It was as if I was seeing the bay in an unspoiled Edenic state…and a poem of redemptive peace was born.
