DEATH IS A SMALL THING IN CALIFORNIA

1.

A prescribed burn,

in the language of forests,

turns us away

from the park entrance, a way

of protecting survivors of fire

from beetle-plague

and other pests.

Scorched paw, healed perhaps

in the ash.

2.

In Redwood Park the stones sing

to the scant water flowing over them

this spring, the pinche tender leaves

of poison oak flutter seductively

near migrant wings of monarchs

seeking refuge

in the moist shade, a moment’s rest

among what were giants,

hace pocas generaciones. The men 

came, made the high secoya branches 

squeal

in recognition of their dead

cousins approaching on the water, holding 

straight, bound from Monterrey.

Leaves and masts whisper

against each other,

whipping the wind.

3.

Who brought the muskets? Who the saws? 

Who built the mission, who the city around it?  

Who found gold

where they least expected it

in their blind search?

Who razed the forest,

left dust and used needles,

left rusting chimneys

1

among new picnic tables

and benches before the summer 

customers arrive? What wildlife 

here, among transported 

convicts, knows how to glean

nourishment from pungent 

gumtree? What charming marsupial 

is called bear out of its name

but cannot live here

except caged? Far from home,

I meet California black bear

on the trail. We greet each other 

paw to paw. They scar me,

these losses. What the 

animal left me I can see in 

its scat.

Who called it

Camino real? Not the elephant seals. 

Not the redtail screaming overhead. 

Not coyote or conejo. Not El Cerrito 

or Pleasant Hill. A colony of 

hormigas befriends me, allows me to 

track them. I ask permission to cross 

their territory safely, promise not to 

tread on them, plead with them not to 

obliterate my presence, once I’m 

gone.