Cobweb clouds
Wind around the mountains -
The Channel Islands disappear before my eyes -
The pelicans fly in lines -
My Chumash aunt, born to be the princess
Of this beach before they made it a state park
Lets the Seminarian from the mission,
Where you can smell the blood, say Thanksgiving grace
With the censers of the eucalyptus groves
And the white sage the state no longer lets them pick.
From three thousand miles away, the memory scent
Of how the British named any strange land Turkey
And how the pilgrims ate of that foreign bird
At the same time here that Gods and holy lands were bartered;
At the powwow fire, as we traded Jack and Coke,
She told us of a book you can only buy at the mission,
How tribes that both were strangers here
Gave protection in the breeze...
O Golden California, not a place for philosophies.
Sunset over San Bernadino
Veils of pink above the mountains
Freedom's voice
As the silent desert begins.
In Arizona, past the sign for 95, "Needles/Intake Blvd,"
I regain maximum consciousness,
The soil turns red as it rains,
Puddles shine like blossoms,
Porcupine shrubs glisten like stars.
