I gain the trail to Kennedy Ridge, my mind
stops chattering and suddenly I'm a poet again,
pumping the color of
a Martian's aqueous dreams.
elderly man strolls past me leaning
on a California black oak cane.
never knew where this road went," he says.
long have you lived here?"
We both laugh, and
his dog marks
Red dust and
tire tracks struggle up the
with Smokey the Bear, who is no longer here.
the way home, I stop at a rock hidden
from the road, on which is painted,
of the Universe."