I can tell you now, the future will take
a shape you won’t recognize—and you may,
as well, become someone caught in the current
far from here. These things are what they are,
but the ground is real, these hills and trees,
these fractured rocks in piles that haven’t
moved much, some with more speckled red
and yellow lichen laughing fire at the sun,
canyons running water when it rains, tree frogs
in spring. It is another world when you turn
uphill, turn your back on the dramas playing
to every face in town, plots distorted still.
At the mouth of every canyon, a Redtail
will glide quietly over you, feathers upturned,
land in an oak to read who you are. Ground
squirrels will still be chasing one another
in the grass—so many stems and flowers.
Buckeyes and sycamores, never giving-up,
old oaks like moss clinging to the north
slopes—acorns claiming space to survive
apart from it all, a ring at a time until
they become hollow homes for bugs and birds.
You will need to be familiar with what’s real
to find who you are when you go there.