LISTENING POST

I stand between a bedrock mortar
and a druid stone.
A neighbor's wood smoke rises
to join the contrail
of a transcontinental flight.

Two overwintered bluebirds
peck berries from a dying
oak tree's beard of mistletoe,
its roots dug into frost-heaved
decomposing granite
re-composing tree and shadow.

A squirrel has eaten half
a mushroom-cap and left the rest.
Coyote leaves his scat
full of manzanita berries
and fur: gray squirrel.

In this silence, I imagine
I could hear the earth turn
its worms through soil,
blood running rabbit-
trails in my ears, or

news on the breeze from ridges
up-east and over. I stand
listening, till at last
it's time to go back home.
I have no closet there
to store this quiet.


AT DOTTY'S DINER

Last night you were listening
to Lohengrin recorded live
at The Proms. Or was it Bayreuth?
But now at sunup here you are
again in Bakersfield behind the counter,
where it's grilled cheese sandwiches
and diet Coke,
the Dixie Chicks on the jukebox,
and the only enigmatic stranger in this town
wears scuffed Tony Lamas
and overalls. In recollection
how foreign all that singing-language sounds,
when every eloping lover
you've ever heard of
ends up in a bungalow overlooking
the oil fields.

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