I would go camping on the delta,
where the Sacramento extends
into the salty perimeter of the Pacific.
Here the wind would blow so extra
hard, and I would join the sailors
with foam glass sailboards and
sails made of mylar and monofilm.
The inland valley heat might lift
this day, a stillness locking air
while on the bay surrounding
San Francisco the gray fog
of a cool summer looking to push
away the heat. River tides carry
out the brackish waters as they
build giant rolling bumps
spread over the water surface.
At twenty knots the sails come out
in blues and pinks, reds and yellows
and the hardy ones who live the
love of the wind will launch their
pointy craft off the rocky shore
spinning madly through the swelling
bulges passing over sandbars
in the late setting of the sun
staying long enough into the dark
to keep a hint of sight as the
wind continues building all night.