what sparkles on moonless nights?

Round and round

the mulberry bush

the monkey chased

the weasel… Is the bush

the same as the tree?

Like the ones they planted

across the street from

751 Appleberry Drive

where the only time

I saw my mother cry

one night, sitting against

the trunk of a mulberry tree.

They grow really fast

which explains why they

were planted next to the walkway.

To me, they were trash trees,

if you tried to climb them

the branches broke off,

even the the thick ones.

I found out later they have

the leaves that silk caterpillars eat.

And that redeemed them.

I like silk. I have some made

from their lives and efforts.I have

eaten the caterpillars after

they were steamed out the 

cocoons from which

silk thread is spun.

They taste like potatoes.

I don’t knoow why Mom

left the house that night,

except that it had something

to do with Dad. She wouldn’t say.

Just told me that she was okay,

go back home. I didn’t go home,

I went out into the dark schoolyard

and looked up at the stars.

I could see a lot more of them

away from the streetlights

and houselights. Starlight

and the black silhouettes

of oaks, bay laurels, and madrones

the kind of trees whose branches

don’t break when you climb them.

Sundown

The sun fades over

the horizon.

About the same

as when T. rex

looked up

from whatever 

she was eating.

Probably.

Might be

a few minutes

plus or minus

in the planet’s spin

from dawn til dusk.

Does that comfort you?

It does for me.

That’s the moment

for cocktail hour!

Have a Martini or a Mojito,

Manhattan or a Margarita.

Iced Tea or just

a sparkling water

with a slice of lime.

We’re still here.

For another day at least

and the question

as always is…

what are you gonna

do about tomorrow?

I think God got bored

waiting for T. rex

to figure out something

beyond how to get

a few hundred pounds

of meat in her belly.

And eventually

we came along.

with our slings and arrows,

our violins. Bronze.

Ferraris. Feather pillows,

Birthday cakes.

Prayers and kisses.

Songs.

Goodnight sun,

see you  tomorrow.

US INTERSTATE 5

Some people find

Interstate Highway 5

Boring. Not me, I

like the contours

of the hills,

the smooth shapes

that so resemble

a sleeper who

lies dreaming

on her side.

Thousand-acre orchards

of peaches, pistachios,

raisin vineyards,

walnuts, and nectarines 

Tumbleweed and

prairie scrub where

the land looks

as endless as the sea.

Where the owls nest

underground and

kit foxes hunt

kangeroo rats on

moonlit nights.

No towns adjacent

to the twin ribbons

of pavement, just

metastatic clusters

of Chevron, Shell and Arco.

Each station with

a mini market stocked

with six dozen brands

of energy drinks,

sodas, flavored

sparking waters

packaged sandwiches,

microwave burritos

and sausage, egg and cheese

muffins or biscuits.

Roller hotdogs, trucker caps,

cheap cowboy hats.

smokeless tobacco,

vape cartridges and

the scent of stale coffee.

Endless chains of trucks.

Classic retail may be dying

but all that stuff still gets

sold online and Fedex, UPS,

and Amazon are busy

hauling it from port to town.

It all moves at eighty plus.

Roll at seventy and you

get rolled over by Hondas

Fords, or Chevys. Volvos.

Toyotas or Teslas.

The California Aqueduct

snakes back and forth

beside the freeway,

fed by water that flowed

in rivers before the

cities and the farms

got so thirsty. There

are largemouth bass,

carp and catfish in the

concrete channel.

I wonder if they get bored.

Knives

 I’m feeling

in the drawer

for knives

I can not see.

I could’ve been

wiser about that.

But here I am.

Careful.

Wanting to caress

a hand grenade,

something from

the Gospel that dispels

simultaneously:

all the threats and bullshit,

executive orders,

and delusions.

Embers

The angry, orangey worm

gnaws the manzanita root

makes a smoldering tunnel

through the soil recently

baked like a scone.

Grows fiery wings

and rides the wind,

glides gently down

to eat a house. 

I often dream without sleeping

My 4 a.m. head was crammed

with a dancing flame and fishes

that swam from cloud to cloud.

and a long ago naked plunge

in the pool of a New Mexico flash flood

fed by a rust-colored cataract.

Our bodies were speckled

and dusted with orange

when it dried on our skin.

And once again, for what

must be the ten-thousandth time,

that warm day one spring

when walking out a ranch road

on the green flank of the mountain

the Spanish named for the devil,

I saw a huge valley oak covered

with fresh sprouting leaves

trembling in the breeze.

Except there was no breeze

and the leaves were singing.

It was all finches, finches,

an orchestra of goldfinches

on their way north to nest and feast

on the seeds of grasses and thistles.