We ride all day 'till the sun's going down I'm gonna be glad to get out of this town. - Charley Willis (“Goodbye Old Paint”)
Into Fresno for the first time in years to carve cancer off my face
with the cars and trucks, all makes, all sides, both ways, packed parking, debt-ridden drivers cooped-up in caves and castles busy being where there is no place without more of the same for miles
and I’m scared— not of the knife, nor of the scar— but way too tight for my old heart.
It is a race now, but slowing near the finish line— time to identify new wildflowers, measure rain for posterity, data to apply to reason, to a pattern for those of us who believe not everything is random
chaos, turbulence and tornadoes inside the Capitol of the planet where the big guns make money playing chicken, or blind man’s bluff for the rest of the resources we’ve about used-up
especially space without trace or track of humankind—
the dogwood creek’s short cast for snowmelt rainbows where even a child would not go hungry.
I can go back anytime I want to escape or wait until the job’s done.
drycrikjournal 