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.