I’d walk the ridgetop into sunrise,surprise overnight cobwebs, gold-filament
woven in black-oak.
Evenings I’d hike to a manzanita clearing
and climb the boulder overlooking
canyon, bedrock mortar slipping
to sleep above a nameless creek.
I’d listen for the spirits of the people
who lived there and moved away.
In this new place, how do I find sunrise
under Stone Mountain? Daylight
strikes on chert, not granite. Sun sets
out of sight. No canyon overlook;
a winter creek washes out the fences.
Spotted towhees flit in and out of windfall
from the last big storm.
People used to live here and call it home, andthen moved on. I listen for their spirits.
Taylor Graham, California, USA