See, from the foothills

Shred of river glinting, trailing,

To flatlands, the city:

glare of haze in the valley horizon

Sun caught on glass gleams and goes.

From cool springs under cedar

On his haunches, white grin,

long tongue panting, he watches:

Dead city in dry summer,

Where berries grow.

MARIN-AN

sun breaks over the eucalyptus

grove below the wet pasture,

water’s about hot,

I sit in the open window

& roll a smoke.

distant dogs bark, a pair of

cawing crows; the twang

of a pygmy nuthatch high in a pine—

from behind the cypress windrow

the mare moves up, grazing.

a soft continuous roar

comes out of the far valley

of the six-lane highway—thousands

and thousands of cars

driving men to work.

SIXTH-MONTH SONG IN THE FOOTHILLS

In the cold shed sharpening saws.

a swallow’s nest hangs by the door

setting rakers in sunlight

falling from meadow through doorframe

swallows flit under the eaves.

Grinding the falling axe

sharp for the summer

a swallow shooting out over.

over the river, snow on low hills

sharpening wedges for splitting.

Beyond the low hills, white mountains

and now snow is melting.       sharpening tools;

pack horses grazing new grass

bright axes—and swallows

fly in to my shed.

THE SPRING

Beating asphalt into highway potholes

pickup truck we’d loaded

road repair stock shed & yard

a day so hot the asphalt went in soft.

pipe and steel plate tamper

took turns at by hand

then drive the truck rear wheel

a few times back and forth across the fill—

finish it off with bitchmo round the edge.

the foreman said let’s get a drink

& drove through woods and flower fields

shovels clattering in back

into a black grove by a cliff

a rocked in pool

feeding a fern ravine

tin can to drink

numbing the hand and cramping in the gut

surging through the fingers from below

& dark here—

let’s get back to the truck

get back on the job.

A WALK

Sunday the only day we don’t work:

Mules farting around the meadow,

Murphy fishing,

The tent flaps in the warm

Early sun: I’ve eaten breakfast and I’ll

take a walk

To Benson Lake. Packed a lunch,

Goodbye. Hopping on creekbed boulders

Up the rock throat three miles

Piute Creek—

In steep gorge glacier-slick rattlesnake country

Jump, land by a pool, trout skitter,

The clear sky. Deer tracks.

Bad place by a falls, boulders big as houses,

Lunch tied to belt,

I stemmed up a crack and almost fell

But rolled out safe on a ledge

and ambled on.

Quail chicks freeze underfoot, color of stone

Then run cheep! away, hen quail fussing.

Craggy west end of Benson Lake—after edging

Past dark creek pools on a long white slope—

Lookt down in the ice-black lake

lined with cliff

From far above: deep shimmering trout.

A lone duck in a gunsightpass

steep side hill

Through slide-aspen and talus, to the east end,