Refugees at Avila Beach

Every day sandpipers track their reflections

across the sand, their slick elusive perfect selves,

then run from the waves they pursued.

I lean heavily on my sister's arm, too sick

to follow the water. I see myself,

two bent miniatures, one in each of her pupils.

We cross the road to a seaside inn

run at little profit by an old Mexican and his brassy wife.

They tell us about the Filipino who comes once a week

for chili before his fishing trip: "Those Filipinos

use every part of their catch." I saw him myself,

hunched on a stool, looking poor.

Restless, I have traveled across seven states

to say nothing. She is sister, yes,

split from the same home, but thirty years

of free passage have dropped her on this distant coast

she cannot leave. I shade my eyes and turn to the window

where I can still see the sandpipers; one flaps

off to the left in neat evasion.

We walk back up the coast to the car.

The fisherman hauls in his nets, a meager catch.

The sun drags its slow flame toward

the horizon. All night long the birds

will sleep on the Pacific, rocking uneasily.