No matter how long I live here
I’ll never be a local, always
 
someone from over the hill.
Never named queen
 
of the Chamarita, never read currents
as easily as lines of my palm.
 
I settle into my secret cove, awaiting
the return of the elephant seals
 
who winter here. Each day the tide
steals my boot prints from the sand.
 
Each day I plant them new. The limit
per catch of giant owl limpet,
 
my neighbor says, is thirty-two.
Sautée up nice. Named
 
for an attachment scar
that looks like an owl
 
on the inside of the shell.
You can see it only if you shuck it.
 
The owl limpet is a farmer.
It tends its plot of microalgae
 
on wave-wracked rocks
of the upper littoral,
 
bulldozing barnacles
and mussels, then retreating
 
to its home scar—the precise hole
it’s carved for itself in the rock.
 
If you pried me away from this place,
turned me over and gutted me
 
you’d find a picture in the shape of
a house, a wave the color of pearl.
 
If you held me to your ear
you’d hear the click of the perfect
 
latch of key to hole.