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
