after Hummel, in conversation,
and Paul, in 2 Corinthians 13
Sharks don’t usually come to the Bay,
so when that famous fin appears first
on one side of your kayak then the other
you don’t panic:
Not because you know better,
but because the cool fear and the hot awe
cancel out and there’s nothing to do but dip
back into the water—this side, that side,
this side—until it is gone and, with luck,
soon back through the Gate,
to the Farallons,
to make babies
and to eat.
Above, gulls scream as they parallel contrails.
Ahead, shadows and occasional teeth
of the old Berkeley pier
stretch miles into the brack.
No one’s caught a ferry there in generations,
yet its echoes remain.
But this, our echo of shark, my son,
will never establish within her sea.
This, our echo of shark, my son,
is just witness of you, witness of me.
Theric Jepson has lived in small towns and big cities, and has witnessed raw nature in both, making him a firm believer in speaking with the crows. His writings at the intersection of environment and religion have been published in Wilderness Interface Zone, Psaltery & Lyre, Califragile, and are forthcoming in Blossom as the Cliffrose (Torrey House Press, 2021). For more, follow Theric on Twitter @thmazing.
