47 The Partly-written Page Life’s uneventful. What I remember most At the odd moment or lying awake At three A.M. is not the storms that shake Oranges from the groves on up the coast And wash them out to sea (this year some crossed The bows of fishermen watching gray whales break), Litter the shore with splintered trees and make The news: X houses ruined, X lives lost. What has stayed with me is such a thing as this: I come in through the late dusk from my run, A girl at the picnic table glances over A half a page of writing she’s just done, Then stares out where the dark waves slap and hiss Under the darker rainy low cloud-cover. 93