In between two buildings,
in a fenced off area, I notice a rare thing around here: grass gone
to seed. The tossing grain heads bring to mind wild horses on the Sierra. I love how their movements are both random and in
unison, as if each silken stem conducts its own symphony, but in the same timing. The guards don’t like that sort of chaos and
make us chop growth before it gets that far and triggers a
startling recollection
of walking through timothy
up to your waist. The sticky fingers of grasshoppers
fly at your arms held out to the sides over
the coarse tips. The sweet smells of life in the humid
white air. Buzzing all around of horseflies, green flies
and majestic purple dragonflies. Rabbits rustle
and copperheads slither silent. Bobwhites ask
what’s next, what’s next: a dip in the pond or a run
down the sled hill and the feeling of flight. It’s a stark
contrast to this
place of slow death
behind the wall. It takes an act of will and
consistent effort against the weight of the place.
Where time layers up like the sides of a canyon:
the sediment of bureaucracy and the laws formed
from rumor and prejudice; the limestone of the dead
before their time; the schist of the averted eye;
the shale of fear-selling politicians
making their careers with their war on crime.
To fight the malaise,
I notice as much as I can:
a family of chipping sparrows has been dropping by
for the leavings of men feeding pigeons. At first
it’s just a few chippies. I watch from August
to October as the family grows to twenty hoppers
among the huge plodding pigeons. A close look
reveals grasshoppers disguised as sand and lethargic
as rock. I notice a pair of bronze-headed cowbirds ―long
sleek and black with a hint of green in the sun.
They sneak elegantly about like little spies.
Each of these creatures is a door
to my old world.
I can smell the kelp beds
as I wait for a wave in freezing Santa Cruz surf
and a sea otter glides by on his back
knocking a shellfish against a rock on his belly.
Yesterday I was in the cell
of an old native,
looking at his latest gorgeous oil painting of a horse
and rider at dusk on a desolate snowy landscape.
He looked at me with a crow’s eyes, pointed
to his temple and said, I have a life sentence, but this
they can’t lock up.
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