Was love between us, a scent of danger, of linger, of orange and lemon, of salt and sand, of time dare not, of leave not please, of please come back, of one minute more, of one minute more, then gone.
Finch, crow, deer, hawk! Hawk! Hawk! Hawk!
On a low branch of an ancient — an eight trunked oak — I sit under a cave of branches. More, a giant bouquet, granite boulders beneath it. My big hiking boots in the thick brown mulch. Sounds of civilization are finding the canyon — the grey panther — agenda types on their brisk walks; Latinas in sausage casings, leggings, tummies and breasts under one big curved zipped blur, their peach dogs hunched, refusing to walk one inch further into the wilds. Expert hikers, gone already, hours ago. And others — spectator-walkers, nature lovers palming sage with the summer trainees and me.
People with backpacks and music piping through their ears passing chatty bun girls, twenty-somethings, doing what girls do these days with too much Rapunzel on their heads — their hair — landed drones or big, beefsteak briskets – hair stuffed with who knows what – listening devices? Teddy bear parts? Puffed hair covered over with more hair, held in place with a single stretchy hairband. The leaf turners behind them, AA folks next, walking at a labyrinth pace who seem to have all day, some, as big as parade balloons, striking the path like everyone else, one step at a time.
Days I love them all, but today, I want to be invisible. Fly ‘there,’ wherever there is, like a hawk, do my hawk business, but not think so much, not think about how better it might be to be an eagle, crow how better to be a tiny yellow bush house finch diving in and out of brush like the ones I let go off my front porch years ago. A day when a fist full of flutter became more itself. Let birds be birds, skip the cage. Ah, to be a red tailed hawk, have dinner for breakfast, not worry about stuff, the nest, clocks, kids, the man.
My middle aged middle, getting too big to ignore. A black hole in space on my sofa now, taking my body over, surrounded by asteroid blinkers. You know, stars. Like constellations gone Broadway pointing at my marquis middle, my thighs, like some melting pot junkyard in the Pacific, or creeping on earth fingery thing like the junkyard twenty minutes from here taking over the good earth, like the crazed duplication of found-agains, so many God-soaped faces in one place, so lost, so found, so lost again in so little time, like pom-pom pinks in rock gardens, stuffy straw hat garden parties way out of my league. Showhouse gals, sipping tea, some flying high on morning cocktails without a net, no pain, no gain, pains in the arse, to be or not to be a somebody, to do so or not do so, to not die all pummel meat done in the end. To do the day’s exercise or not. Aw, the heck with it. I roll over, roll the die again, then get up and go. I just do it, walk first, then write my first line.