The whiteness comes and comes, a charity for the eyes. At first one stands convinced a lost shoelace is tangling back and forth in some nearby tidal pool, a polite white smallness with the grace to be noticed. Then, as the chipped rail of the high observation post glows colder against your hand and the sea wind swipes your cap, flattening your hair forward over your eyes, you are abruptly made to remember that you are standing at the altitude of a small plane, a country doctor’s Cessna perhaps. You are at the top notch of Pt. Reyes and look down like a parachutist at a long brown beach, a spread of smooth peanut butter that floods north and away from the mount you have ascended until low clouds lick the sight clean. The waves along the beach, creating curve after curve uninterrupted by pier or jetty, demonstrate a process of movement through space as pure as a leaping ballerina. There are so many waves, so many curves, that they seem to be the business edge of a serrated dinner knife laid down alongside the turnip paste, okra and rice pudding prepared for Thanksgiving, the turkey still whole and crisp at Dad’s end of the table. Before and below me, as the wind tucks my chin, the endless blade scrapes the land lovingly, back and forth.