The pace in California has been urgent
since the Gold Rush dream of short-cuts
to the unending, ubiquitous rolls of buzzing
snare drums announcing another parade
down Easy Street that everyone in and out
of state still believes is far better than
pastoral quietude, the calm river spread
with its ripple-less glass reflection of
mountain peaks that hang upside-down
in timeless skies, we rush instead to wait
in lines going nowhere fast—our contagious
fever we cannot cure with more of the same.
