Fair Oaks, California
Early coffee with cream, doves at the feeder.
On my desk, a broken relic from Israel,
a carved Raven carrying the sun in his beak,
a cup with pens, pencils and two candy canes.
Thick dictionaries about dreams,
symbols and synonyms keep company.
Above, a watercolor of the American River,
a lone blue boat skims the morning sun.
Bluffs, studded with olive green oaks, rise golden.
Sometimes I’m in that boat, drifting
with the purpling current,
the sheen of oar dripping, holding.
Riffles cluster on water’s sweet surface.
A snowy egret with black legs wading,
looking for breakfast.
Not a river for swimming, too fast, too cold,
but fishing—yes, especially salmon.
The shoreline fills with drying scrub grass.
I remember when this bridge was a locale
for the film, “My Favorite Year.”
Under a full moon, locals lounge by iron girders,
recite poetry and drink wine.
The red-tailed hawk sleeps in the heritage oak,
dreams of the ancients
their fire, their chant, their verse.
