In the cool gray morning
the birds are mute,
a little depressed maybe
by lack of sun.
 
A new year is starting
and it looks much
like the mornings of the old year,
moisture more than hinted at,
 
slick furrows darkening cement,
a cloud stuck on the top of our hill.
 
High tide in the marina
lifts perch and garibaldi
up toward the boats,
 
fishermen sling their lines out
like they always do
from the pier by Polly’s,
from the rocks below the splash wall,
 
and sea lions glide 
smoothly through calm water
blowing out long sighs.
 
Sullen handsome men
walk singly from the pier,
thumbs shoved in bluejean pockets,
toothpicks working in their teeth,
 
and pelicans shift and shoulder
on the bait barge in mid-channel.
 
Everyone wants to catch something,
even me, in my stained t-shirt and zigzag pants,
trying to memorize it all as I stride by,
pretending not to stare
 
at the fishermen in their baseball caps,
at the beautiful-legged joggers with their dogs.
 
And what could bode a better year
than a poem caught on the first day?
Blessed be the birds who,
finally cheered by sunlight,
 
dangle down a shiny thread of song.