Big Canyon Road,
a back road whose entrance I can't find. But once there, the engrams
of farms, and familiar trees appear, then down around
a steep bend to deserted resort cabins and summer homes. A
dog barks, a buzzard circles
the road I backpacked down and up so many times 28 years ago. Now
I'm shorter of breath.
Song birds, blue
larkspur, pine and oak climax forest, where Big Canyon Creek begins
its long drive down to San Francisco Bay...the cabin appears:
dark green outside, but insulated walls and roof, another
room built on for a bedroom. Electric range where a large wood
was, larger windows, a new porch built over
land that sharply slants.
water intake pipe no longer silts up," the massage therapist
from Berkeley says, as his telephone rings. A telephone too!
this my hermitage
for a year?
far below freezing—
light the wood stove, jump
back into bed.
Summer nights, a light bulb would singe
my skin, but the Gods were