Do the hawks know I am counting them, my head cold and heavy with salt? To fly that way must feel like finally you belong. I stand here hugging my surfboard, going over a scolding. The wave yanked my body wrong side out like a skirt inside a washer, like a ragdoll wrenched from a hand. I thought I heard the ocean ask, Who do you think you love? Now baylight lowers its body onto the great dune’s body. Beach grass whispers to water and dwarf pines sit on their hands. Just as the ocean makes its bed, the sky comes on like a furnace. The hawks drift higher, ashes, ashes on the air. I rename this place Point High Time for the world I am in love with. Rename it for this life, the place we all fall down.