From this once wild place we gaze
south, the bay soft
with sea fog
and slow moving clouds.
A lone barge, far-off
as a plane,
plies its silent route
to port, the city
a cut-out, pastel and unreal
from this windswept, golden hill.
Monthly Archives: October 2016
The Sky a Valley Above
On the sacred trails
I travel still
sun-warm chaparral
burns my nose,
the resinous smell
somehow close
on these open hills,
low scrub
and hollow sky
far as the horizon.