Now the drought is over, our path curves and twists
through beloved hills prickly with live oak, star thistle
— wet today with California blue-eyed grass.

Walking ’til dusk, our daughter, Mandy, the scout, calls
back, “Someone must have put this place together. It’s
like paradise.” The descent to a creek was flanked with

High walls, glistening, hand-laid, reinforced by river stones.
A tiptoe across a wobbly two-by-four led to a meadow—
lupin— yellow violas. Dinner around a fire—

Serenaded by frogs—Their concert stopped—
perhaps a night time predator— then sleeping
out under an almost full moon— dreaming of
Mandy with a shovel, stones,

Two piles of sand next to the sea—- rising. She loses
the shovel— the stones wash out to sea. Pondering
the loss, she shudders, jumps in, swimming steadily.

Witnessing her paddling in a long white line of pale
swimmers unable to keep up or even pass clumps of
torsos, limbs drifting—darkening like so much sea kelp.

The sun beats down—only awake. Do I find her
still curled up in her shiny new bag— all elbows, fists,
knees pushing hard against the olive drab rayon—

Only her red hair tumbling outside— grateful—
filtered in the morning light.