The moon is pushing on to full, and with the moon's gentle "come hither" beckoning, coastal waters are rising well beyond expected limits. A nearly seven foot high tide is expected today, but the waters cover the beach and swamp the seaside path well before the tide reaches its peak. The pictures below show bay water sloshing over the tops of handrails and obscuring entirely the path with still two hours remaining before the highest tides would breathlessly climax and once again begin to recede.
No one is calling this tide a "King Tide"; that was last month. This is just an ordinary high tide on a placid January day. The extra push ashore? What a high tide looks like with the sea level rise from last year's melt.
So, folks, if we keep consuming at the rate encouraged by those who dream of bigger and better, faster and faster, what will next year bring? Tidal surges over-topping coastal barriers?
Every last one of us needs to take a long hard look at our habits and sloooow down -- consume less, eat less, do less. How often do you drive when you could walk or wait, combine several trips to the store into one? How many products on your kitchen shelves have been shipped from elsewhere by plane? Buy local! Still using plastic wrap? Plastic bags? Well, don't. Store your food in glass. Carry re-usable bags to the store.
Of course, one person's changing small habits is not going to substantially lower energy use, but one person plus one person plus one person becomes a crowd. That crowd of individuals determined to change their habits as consumers can make a difference. So why not try?
It's a beautiful world, worthy of our tender care.
Out front, the moon rises nearly full.
Over the back fence, a string of golden lights
rescued on that last day of carnival.
Above, clouds in great drifts around the moon,
a star balanced above the cypress tree.
The clouds are washed pink by city lights,
and behind them, night bleeds through cobalt blue.
If I hang on that one star and ignore
the street (sirens, noise), maybe I can sleep.
Today, I pulled the passion-flower vine
away from the fence, cutting back years
of dead leaves and branches. No butterfly cocoons,
but still no clear path through this dense fog
crowding in. I stutter when I speak.
All this expectation dissolves me.
I hear trains. Why didn’t someone tell me
earlier that the ‘pale’ of ‘beyond the pale’
was a sharpened stake poked into hard ground,
a resting place for crows and severed heads,
not (as I thought) a shimmer between worlds,
rare and strange? I can’t live with souvenirs.