EIGHTY-EIGHT TO TAHOE

A deep blue you can see
ten-feet through
from high in the Sierras,

little towns trickling down
canyons, grassy ranches
slipping into the churn

of the Valley burning
outwards, bursts of yellow
equipment on freeways

singing with truckloads
on the Delta—four lane
busyness as usual.

Perhaps erosion only
slows amid the panic
of the guilty—as the

chubby turn hungry
when all the icing on
their birthday cake is gone.