Native Landscapes

 

Back then, the new growth on redwoods was the brightest

green and tasted of citrus, a good vitamin source if you were lost

 

in the woods, which I wasn't, I was pure found girl skipping

down Steep Ravine and over Hoo-Koo-i-Koo, walking out

 

from the dark onto gold hills and the prickle of live oak

leaves under my boots when the trail dipped into a crevice,

 

Spanish moss drifting from gnarled arms, joy of that salty

breeze, the welcome yellow line dividing Rte. 1 into coming

 

or going snaking its way into Stinson. Curved miles of beach.

Old wood houses soaked in sea air for years, never completely

 

dry and bougainvillea tendrils prying up the shingles, pulling

the gates askew. Beautiful scavenger, beautiful disaster

 

of a flower, paper-petaled, magenta and purple, sprawling across

the town's rooflines ignoring orange nasturtium underfoot.

 

Rampant invading pampas grass white-blond against a cliff face

and seagulls quarreling over blown trash. Surfers wet-suited and intent.

 

Fog hovering off-shore. Nothing owed to anyone. Nowhere to be.