Published by Red Dirt Press
That pyramid flickered,
our suburb in the hills --
And those of us
who felt the itch,
for whatever reason,
climbed. We followed
the moonlit trail
that unraveled up
into purple drapes
of juniper, aqua pools.
Backlit white curtains:
shadow play screens. Shades
of last summer’s chaise, static
with dew. Sprinklers click.
Look! You once lifted
that extra glass of milk,
tasted that strawberry pie. Power-lines
silvered in moon glow. Never again
will you wait in this same dark bedroom. The den
light under the door clicks black. You are gone.
Remember the chattering monkey god TV? Bobcats
whispered all the names that mattered
on the transverse range. Coyotes sang:
Bright day, stop hunting! Aluminum mailbox
dull orange, then sparking. The San Gabriel Mountains,
Los Angeles wakes below. A bear rambles up the street
in La Canada-Flintridge. Homes torn down, rebuilt;
I left angry as a young man. My anger is gone.
The red-tailed hawk circles in the sky, hunts for meat.
-- Written by Bruce Craven