keep looking
I am but a stranger here — finding my way home.
Is it the tide’s unresting rhythm that shows the way?
or the coastal scrub sunny with blossoms and birdsong?
the creek that runs past yuccas to the ocean shore?
the bridge above, its concrete braun and pillars powered by the ingenuity of conquerors?
the certain horizon, a thin, dark line between mirror and mystery?
the lone white moth — wait, there’s two! — their intelligent wings?
the sounds of engines and tires, of motion madness factoried by man?
the bronze dragonfly whose whizzing like infinity twists in surprise of itself?
or the grand hawk circling the steep erosion on the western edge of expansion?
If harmonic metaphor rustles in, blame the narrator, who has not yet mentioned the burned out stubs of sequoias — the endless cycles of eat and be eaten — the landslides — the fog — the wrangling of space between neighbors — the neverending meeting of matter.
It is not easy to find the way home. First you must look for a long time at just where you are.
