Much too early
In the Spring of 2014
Native wild bulbs were blooming in full
Unwinding from their underground Winter spools
On the hillsides above the creek.
Along sidewalk gardens
The Daffodils
Planted only for the pleasure of the eye,
Were plump.
Their split yellow buds deepened in color.
Reminding me of Canaries bringing a warning
Of dangers near at hand.
Late Fall, 2013
In dry, hot California,
Peoples minds turned to water.
We dreamed of rivers and creeks.
Those impartial carriers of sustenance
Or poisons introduced
By our ancient fantasy of dominion
And the injury of merely
Standing aside as an onlooker
Or a newsagent
Who broadcasts reason
While well-mannered rhetoric
Masks destruction.
Mid Winter 2013,
Brought the record drought we all feared.
Unprecedented since 1929.
Our dreams brought us images of
Women singing for rain.
Their bodies merging with
Alders and Salmon in the shallow creek.
We knew that our lives were
Completely dependent
On those northwest winds lifting off the ocean
Just forty miles away.
Eventually I saw them
Pushing and forming the hint of a cloud
Reflected in a pool along a brook
Where a fallen tree had stilled the flow of water
Creating a mirror for
the sky.
Late Winter, 2014
Real rains came on the cusp of our despair.
Gradually.
Constantly.
Adding weight and expanse to the sponge of soils.
Settling into underground streams that ran joyful
Like sleeping snakes awakened from long hibernation.
Set free to play their sinuous games once again.
Anchored in service to an inexact compass.
Elastic.
Adaptable.
Unforeseeable in it's shifting.
