Always on the edge of it,
the Valley fades into flat farms
and busy towns we have forgotten
beyond our circle of foothill cows.

Visalia lies somewhere in the haze.
Up and down the state
commerce churns cars between
RVs and trucks on US 99

we can’t see—yet tension turns
a wheel away as I leave
my window framed
in drought-killed trees,

yet still standing to screen
my wobbly presence
near the edge of it—I retreat
to more solid ground.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.