abalone when August discourages what it touches with dirty fingers and the smell of diesel hangs like birthday candles on the palm-spiked air she may drive out to Abalone Cove again – kneel by those hands of rock that cup the tide, and let it curl away... inspired by the brown pelican ferrying death, bit by slippery bit in his tenacious beak, she may take out a lease on winter terms and settle there – worshipping alone at her abalone church built of shells, and the men who used to live in them |