At the top of the ridge there’s a vision of
orange-gold light through eccentric trees
for only birds to sing about. Wind shivering
the huckleberry scrub, sun unraveling in the salt haze
of the ocean. Then the evening marine-layer reaches you
on its way up Mt. Vision, turning the branch-arched path
into a caricature of a quest, and you divide yourself into
a novel wanting to come true
and the knowing that it has.
Praise the plain warm clothes,
continue out until dark.