Heading east out of San Francisco
up into the Central Valley—hours of road,
though it looked like nothing on the airline map.
Surfing the radio for wakefulness.
You’ve got to have noise
for the long weave in amongst the trucks
over burnt hills, past fruit groves,
innumerable one-street towns.
Mexican music or bible-stations are best.
The symphonies of Schubert
brought to you on NPR by Budweiser,
need the chic city to make themselves heard.
Out here, wind generators can be parables—
can break through
the surfed sermons
and the carboned fandangos:
driving up out of a canyon
into a suddenly singing sky
and a new expanse of valley
I see the great bird-blades stud the slope,
spin and slow, spin on another breeze,
lose heart as others outspin them.
Trucks and timezones pass away as I watch the blades,
watch my life,
out on the hill, listening…
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
