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  California Winter

 Afternoon headlights,
 Like sleepy eyes under a charcoal sky.

 Sideways rain.

February Sunbathe  

It's a weak warmth, but just enough.
Cover the eyes, soft radio,
Bees in the rosemary.

 Pregnant Afternoon

 The sky is holding its breath.
 A clueless vulture circles
 Beneath the thunder.


2 a.m.  

Out the window
I hear each passing car disappear
Into the black. 

The world sleeps
And I hitch a ride.

 Mt. Tam Winter

 We climb 
 Into a redwood womb.
 Wet, dark.

 Drink the air. 

Joshua Tree  

Under gathering rain,
A cemetery of bony hands
Reaches up from the grave.

 Joshua Tree Freak Show

 Giant boulder tombs
 Neatly spaced.
 Balancing on nothing,
 Appearing out of nowhere.  

Hall of Bees  

The valley floor is alive,
Whispering off each rock face.
This canyon is in C sharp.

 Interstate 5

 After Shasta,
 Or Death Valley,
 I exhale, and head down
 A long ribbon of farmland.
 Cleanse the palette.

Reality Check-Swing  

A couple innings of Giants radio 
And I'm back in my wheelhouse.

 Birthday Note To Self

 Step away from the controls
 And think about your new number.
 Yeah, it's man-made,
 But it exists.  


Why do I feel nothing
For my neighbor's obedient roses?

Because of a sea of purple,
Blurring the windy hillside.

 Red-winged Blackbird

 He works his field
 On his fencepost, 

 He knows that a scarlet handkerchief
 Looks great with a black jacket.  

Mourning Dove  

Her soft coo, 
Drifting up from the earth, 
Is extinguished by a breeze. 

Perhaps she is hiding, 
In grief.

 Wind in a Bamboo Forest

 Creaking.  Cracking. 
 A groan.  A shift.

 Some spirit is making furniture.
 Or tearing it apart, in a rage.  

June in Marin  

Between the forward motion of spring
And halted heat of summer
Lies June.

It’s as young as May,
But sweeter.

 Evening Star

 On a dark blue dusk,
 Doesn’t twinkle.

 It’s as steady as a porch light
 On a summer night.

Bedroom Elm  

Those birds can’t see me,
Watching their treetop world
Of thickets, branches, shadows.

 Nice Mix

 At 100 yards away,
 Those windchimes just barely waft
 Over the crickets.  


Dry heat. 
Oak aroma.
Ocean air.
The northern california cocktail.

 Dog Days

 Mid-August is my solstice.
 It's a pause,
 Before the long tumble.

Fruit of our Labor  

 In August,
 When I bite into a peach,
 Life makes sense.

 3 a.m. Roadtrip

 The city is asleep,
 And this freeway is a slingshot.
 Dawn will reveal where I land.

Yosemite Valley  

Cliffs like movie stars.
Chiseled forehead,
Lantern jaw,
Silver temple.

 Phantom Summer 

 The sun musters a little bit of August…
 Before disappearing into
 Long shadows, backlit trees.

University Library 

I sit  between stacks 
That nuns will protect for centuries.

Books sleep.
Bartok drenches my skull.


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