Thorns

I walk down to the sand 
on a deer trail 
(or perhaps a human one) 
lined with a wall of blackberry bushes,   
snagged 
with spider-webs 
that hold like glue 
onto shore pine needles, 
and escaped petals 
of some neighbor's night-blooming jasmine, 
and there's a single swath of gray construction matting,  
frayed at the edges, 
and a tuft of cottonwood pollen, 
dark at its center,  
much like a dandelion seed,    
and a half-disintegrated gum wrapper, 
yellowed by years of UV exposure,  
flickering like a kite tail 
as it is struck through by a blackberry thorn 
like a one-hole punch, 
and there's a seagull feather next to it, 
caught by another spine, 
tethered to a thorn 
and billowing 
like silver, stringy hair, 
and the wind,
it smells like ocean, 
it is ocean, 
all kelp and brackish inlet and driftwood baked in filtered sunlight, 
and the ocean calling, 
and the pelicans darting black against the afternoon, 
stirring latitude lines on the water with the pumping of their wings.