Last Day

I walked along the ocean’s shore. It was the morning before my last day on a job. My job was outsourced to a corporate hinterlands. I was given two days notice and a slice of severance. I kicked up my heels at the sacking. Time to write that Western! Waves crushed in white and formless as this piece of writing. I approached the mouth of the wildest river in Oregon. Driftlogs the size of whales blocked my path. I happily went around them and hucked stones into the water as I kept moving south. Movement across the river’s mouth caught my eye. I’d spooked a dozen harbor seals hauling out. A few started crawling to the river. I quickly turned around and headed north. I jogged. I looked back and saw that they had stayed put and snoozed away. I found a choice cut of beaverwood and carried it to the car. I went to work. I gulped down day-old Yuban and read of the looming impeachment. There was nothing to do because I had already done it a week ago. I wrote a poem. I wrote a letter. I watched people I’d never see again. I took lunch with the goats for the last time and hucked the remains of my peanut butter sandwich to them. I clocked out early and returned to the beach.