Land of the Esselen
Take the bodies of the land and the sea.
Grind them together for thirty million
and something’s bound to chip off.
Look. Not even the heart is left
hunks of Sierran granite spilled
up and down the coast;
the continent’s bones scattered
across the exposed sea floor
from Bodega Head and Point Reyes in
past the Farallons, Pinos and Lobos
down to that plutonic shard the Spanish
“the South,” where you may have heard
an older people, beyond the cliff,
up the canyon, under the shadows
of the white peak, the red giants; who
spoke in ways foreign to their neighbors.
In that country, all was life,
rock was memory, and nothing
was too inhuman
to have a name.
© 2014–15 Kaweah
He knew her best,
I have no doubt of it.
And didn’t he name her better
Than did the Spaniards? Hah!
What did they know?
They never even approached her.
Today I received another incident report
From the Range. She has
taken to burning again.
If you’ve ever walked her wooded elevations
on a day like this, under the faithful
you might reckon the thickets and the woods to be
on the threshold of ignition.
What isn’t burning is baking.
You can smell it.
The cold fire of alpenglow on the high peaks,
That is a reminder.
I remember, John, how you waited out a mountain
fire in the charred heart of a Sequoia,
that Giant among giants who needs
a little fire now and then.
I would have liked to have been on Paradise Ridge,
there with you, that night.
I would have been waiting, a little nervously,
for the right time to say,
Now tell me
you never considered
Range of Fire.
© 2013 Kaweah