Before the Ink Dries

What I see from here, lying
in the hammock, is the knob
across the canyon, pine tree covered
and seeming close as a house.

Haystack Peak stands behind it.
The clouds pushing northeastward
lined up level at the bottom dark,
bursting upward and curling white
as waves. Blue sky everywhere else.
The wind picking up in the afternoon
and shaking the oak leaves.

Looking at the farthest horizon
for perspective does not help me
understand my feelings or who I am.

This morning cool enough to use
a blanket, now, in my underwear,
leaned back, writing about a moment
that is over before the ink dries.

Toejam Lake

After hiking for hours
we arrived at the lake.
Its blue water circled
by granite brushed azalea.

All afternoon the sun turned
on the tips of the pine trees
until before dusk the mirror surface
blossomed to the nibbles of rising fish.

Night time was a sprinkling of stars,
morning a raining of warm light,
the Sierra solitude hovering
like a mosquito in my ear.

What looked like a leaf
fluttered and perched in the oak,
a Swallowtail!

Above photo of manzanita before the Darby Fire
Above photo of manzanita after the Darby Fire

Where Does the Big Bear Sleep

Where does the big bear sleep
after the sun goes low on the horizon
and the oak leaves have fallen golden in the fall?

Where does the big bear sleep
when the snow piles thick between rocks
and heavy on the branches of the forest?

Where does the big bear sleep?
Does its heart beat more evenly
as it dreams a feast of manzanita berry?

Does the big bear snore in its lair
warm and hidden and curled tight
in its thick brown coat of pine needles?

Does the big bear have an alarm clock
that knows the Spring sprouting of the grasses
and the unfurling buds of the dogwood?

Where does the big bear sleep
when all around comes an emptiness
not unlike the cold that comes nearest to morning?

Where does the big bear sleep,
in its big bear cave buried deep
in the imagination of man?