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Torres Canyon

            

 

My eyes open.

A cool dawn wind crosses my face.                                 

    

Overhead are great oaks

against a pale sky.

           

The redwood deck is old, splitting, rough with splinters, grey,

covered in sharp, hard, dead oak leaves.

 

It is silent.

But there is a light, faint sound in the silence,

the sea breaking a mile below.

 

Gold sun touches the ridge across.

 

I listen.

 

Then a blue jay shrieks,

sharp, twice.

 

 

 

 

                                April 25, 2000