I never think of people on the coast living in condos
even though I sleep seven floors above a false creek.
We deserve dirt pathways, or gravel, but
not that stuff crumbled down by us and trucked in from elsewhere.
Line us up along the shore to squat where we
can smell new salt.
Let them see us shucking our oysters,
our children diving into blue bushes to gorge on real sugar.
Seagulls will bark overhead, drop their stale snacks. Those wings
mix the wind, put on a show.
Leave it to the birds to export the organic seeds; we
will stay grounded.