Once,
strolling a Humboldt beach,
a friend and I
spotted a surfer
bowing to the ocean.

“Maybe he’s telling it
to have a nice day,”
I said, and we laughed,
a Canadian and a Scot,
secure
in our hard-edged superiority
to fuzzy Californians.

Now,
years and loss
having revealed
the shifting sand
on which we walk,
I bow to all
that humbles me
with gratitude
for every breath.

I bow to the ocean.
I bow to the mountains.
I bow to the blossoming plum tree.

I place my hands
in gassho,
lower my head,
and bow to my dog,
to the student’s poem,
to a glass of clean water.