Olympic Range
I take our familiar turnoff — just a faded campground sign
and the scent of brine. The trail beyond the parking lot
winds through cedar and bracken, opening onto a cove
littered with tidewrack.
that afternoon
driving the coast in silence
a lab report
neatly creased in your lap . . .
the things we should have said
Crouching at water’s edge, I trace the ridge of
an oyster shell—
sharp in places, worn smooth in others. Soft, soft lapping waves.
storm clouds
over the distant mountains
an osprey
trims and folds, plunges
into the bay
haikuKATHA #45, July 2025
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