Where the inversion layer dissipates into crystal mist at dawn,
pixies rise in the canyon, float towards the light, or so it seems
for fleeting instants sparkling in the haze of fog lifting—
the dread of the San Joaquin cloaking lowlands, where dark-gray
silhouettes of cattails once encircled swamps now drained
with ditches to furrows, gravity flow—with just a little rain.
Come awake blinking, heart and mind flicker together
within this ascension beyond the flesh to pagan possibilities
fit for the earth-bound, praying always for something fresh.
Almighty God is too busy with too many and too much
nowadays, not to let the ancient surrogates work the wild
and open territories to tame the natives with a little magic.