Santa Barbara: A Prose Poem

Waves crash against the berm in the early morning sun. East Beach, Arroyo Burro calm. A gull cries over the grey-blue surf. Footprints parade down the shoreline, fading into the horizon as softly as the sand does. A canary palm shakes its fronds in the breeze, its slender and narrow trunk illuminated in gold. Sea grass waves lazily in the gentle ocean breeze as a dog barks from somewhere off in the distance.

I walk down the beach, stepping over the criss-cross of footprints. I am a visitor, but not a visitor. I do not know this beach like the gull or palm do, but I feel like I have for years. I let the seafoam tickle my arms and legs as I walk closer and closer to the waves. The Pacific chill sends ice up my veins, but I walk into the waves nonetheless.

The seawater tickles my toes. Greenish-grey laps over my newly-painted nails. The bite of the Pacific burns my toes and legs. I tremble, but continue wading in the waves. This is where I belong, after all.

In front of me, a pelican swoops down, catches a fish, and flaps away, his wings beating and beating against the sky. I smile at the sight, both familiar and new.

Home.

Evening by the Pacific.