The Problem with Joy

It’s not negotiable. It flits through cedar, smacking
plate glass, leaving a small gray blotch. Winter, early dark

—no glittery snow to pretty things broken,
and lost. Yes, the sky mourns; it rained. She didn’t

so much want to die as stop. Raising her hood,
she walked down the drive for the mail, no intimate

garage door slot, a rural delivery box—the boots’
crunch on gravel like a dog’s percussive bark

or two oaks rubbing shoulders daily, or waves
scrubbing minuscule whorled shells and quartz

to sand, or the peeling of a bandage, …

Maverick’s Surf Point

Unwavering Devotion to the Wave

Zócalo originally published this article on August 4, 2011.

One of the most magical things about the Maverick’s surf point-or perhaps it’s simply the most intriguing-is that you can’t usually see …