Forgive my slight
implicit bias
for Southern California—
the ones I love
live there
where freeways
span the canyons.

Woodsmoke and wet eucalyptus
in winter months,
Mama Marta
and her eight grown sons
feed us on Spanish
in the afternoons—
La Sirena, El Bandolon.

Tired awake
with where I am,
across the river by night
and through the scrub—
paths we scratched as kids
in shifting sleep I run.