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Looking Into the Devil's Churn at Cape Perpetua
by Diane Westergaard

The cormorants are not here today
riding the surf into this crack
in the crow-colored rock,
a weak place where the ocean
presses its advantage striking
an improvised bass line against basalt walls.
Occasionally, a sneaker
will roll in a note so deep
that only the heart can hear its true center.
Algae, green as new rice, stains places
on the rock where it finds shelter.
With ancient arms the ocean's call,
come to me, wraps itself in every wave.
And like the cormorant you want to ride
its foamy back in and out, in and out.
It says, I need someone to sing with me,
a higher voice. The birds could tell you
a higher voice needs to fly first.


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