Around a table at El Mag as the days grow short.
A warm place in the early dark of December.
I had a Burrito To Go—
misnamed because I always eat it there.
There are so few lights on the peninsula at night;
much more darkness
as raccoons meander across untraveled roads.
Waves lap empty beaches
depositing bits of sea glass and trash.
Winds blow through the bayside pines
and old houses decay into dust
All the more precious the table around which we sat,
Sharing notes and news
but sheltered by a light
that pervades it all.
There is no darkness the light doesn’t touch.