San Bruno Mountain
February 2, 1995

Out of dark — fruit fallen tufts,
pale, sudden as hope, arise,
leave my slopes, serene, pure glad.

Water streams down the gorge. Lovers plunge,
feet, legs calf-high into the gurgling flow.
Next to the tangle of thimbleberry.

They steal the season, make fast love.
Then, good companions, they calm,
see the cluttered creek needing clearing.

They haul rock after rock from the course,
for anxious ambassadors of the flow.
Done, they stagger up the ever-swelling brook.

The manzanita reaches to snag a collar,
then a sleeve, a reminder of upper hand’s
lowest reach. The only change, we ever make is

Closeness to our kin. Last days spent, our arms
around a dying friend. Trees desire—a natural end.
Red flicker sings of sustenance, not doom.

The butterflies still sleep in their cocoons.