each receding ridge
more faint than the last, a blue
hazy Sierra

Bright as a flashlight
on a Boy Scout camping trip
the full moon tonight

Visiting the Proposed Site of Los Banos Grandes Reservoir

We’ve all managed, somehow,
to reach the summit. California poppies
clinging to the hillside that reaches up
in front of us. Our line of hikers wandering
up the trail in a ravine between the grassy hills
from which we looked back at Los Banos Creek,
a skeletal Sycamore casting shadows
on Pudding Stone and glassy water.

Our journey began early. The reservoir
boat ride took us leisurely through the Tule reeds
by the shoreline beneath the ancient sandstone
cliff. Heron floated on long silent wings.
A pair of Kingfishers was spotted
through binoculars. We listened
to the sounds -Western Grebe, Coots -
watched the Small Mouth Bass
swimming near the boat.

Path of the Padres took us
past an ancient Yokut village site.
Coyotes watched us from a grassy slope.
Wild pigs ran in front of the cattle
on the gravel and disappeared
into the Salt Cedar, Cottonwood and Willow.
A school of Carp scattered when we threw
a rock, and regathered in the same spot
in the pond near Pounding Rock,
the Indian Grinding Stone,
where we stopped and saw a Killdeer
guarding her eggs. Then we climbed
to see Menjoulet Valley, looking west,
570 acres, six miles, the largest
Sycamore grove in California.

On This Mountain

Each tree a world
every rock a discovery
the creek in pools of light
the river and its tributaries -

rarely do I understand myself
or anybody else. The fox runs.
The squirrel climbs, and mankind
so full of holes and contradictions.

Half of this canyon
in sunlight, the other side
in shadow, the sky
its own kind of blue,

whichever way I look
the overwhelming details
taken as one or taken
as a whole,

sugar pine cones,
Tiger Lily blooms,
this one chance with words,
granite holding up the air.

Circle of dark trees
on the mountain canyon slope
shadow of a cloud

Garter Snake

This elevation
gives the mountain perspective -
Cezanne's hike to paint.

Snowy Bear paw print

The stars I can't count
and all the stars I can't see,
what is emptiness?

Flutter of cool wind
night stars and dogwood blossoms
April mountain light.

To my amazement
a big Western Rattlesnake
not a piece of wood.

Harmony Lane

Our house is open to the air
of last night’s rain, to birdsong
and shadow of pine trees.

Remnants of a hurricane
from Mexico
paint Sierra mountains,
a dull varnish on the ridge,
a cloudy coating on the sky.

All these things are pages in a book of days.

They turn like oak leaves in the breeze.
They are as weeds, and wasps, and butterflies.
They are read in the colors of the field.

In painting this picture

I give you a window and a view,
an understanding that the road here dead ends,
that the dark is splendid
and the stars unlimited.

On This Mountain

On this mountain

soundless
night and day
by sun and sky
moon and star
by all things gone
and all things are,
by shadow dappled
sunlit meadow
forest edged
and road less yet,
nature nurtures
changes.
What of me?

Trout Fishing With a Friend

smooth
arcs precise
placement
a fly

lofted
on the surface
of the current
softly

wet grasses
in the stream
sing music
to us