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Sound of Arroyo Burro Creek
During a Once-in-a-Lifetime Rainstorm
All the water held above like years of denial
come down at once, the backyard filling, roof leaking,
hills sliding, fifteen feet of runoff under
the downtown overpass, warriors with no war
to fight jumping in, we come to check the banks
of the creek, if they can endure such dumping.
I have never heard such a symphony of rage
as the back of the creek explodes into muddy arc
through a four-foot pipe, this same pipe once a cave
for my child who ran here when afraid,
who sang here and lifted from her body on the echo
of her voice, who loved me so much
she would even share this great secret with me
before leaving one summer, the day
our paths split. And the sound my heart made
is here, its groan holding what is hardly bearable,
banks caving in, clay gone to ooze, water a hide
of brown tepees, sound of buffalo on the rampage,
the creek a war cry of water spreading to meet
more and more creeks jumped their beds
run away from home like our children
who can't take the limits anymore. Later I drive
to the ocean which leaps with joy at the feast,
swallows all the overflow whole, absorbs
what we cannot control. On my knees
to photograph how land and sea are one,
this one day in who knows how many centuries,
there is a voice, a sweet lilt calling mom surfing
the crest of all that commotion. I thought I'd find you
here, she says. I thought the same I say and
take her picture too, where everything meets.
The Privacy of Wind
Once I read when you find yourself accidentally
on top of the mountain
and come down, you can never be there again
without struggle, namely in service of others, though
I was not thinking of this last week pressing up
against the wind, the privacy of wind that insisted itself
upon me despite my wish for only pleasure,
to feel the machine of the body that overrides routine.
In the beginning I lost my breath
so excited to be rising again, but it came back quickly
as I moved into the thinness
of high blue, adding layers as I went,
two shirts, sweater, scarf around my ears,
over that a sun visor and #25 on my nose,
youngsters running up and down in swim suits
as if they were breath itself. Only when
the trees ran out did I realize why I forgot
pen and paper this trip, for wind
to have its way and I would be old enough
to hear.
It was then the music of lonely earth swelled
beneath and I could not stop
except to photograph the mildest wildflower
nestled in a grotto of volcanic rocks
or pick my way through snow that had no grip
in summer when the mountain opens its gates
not in kindness but bears our intrusion
only to behold something besides white
and one flower. When finally there was no place
to go but over the edge, I remained steady
in the wind, the privacy of wind,
rolls of excess rises far below. And while thinking
we don't have as long to spend as nature
repairing ourselves after eruptions
and how long it would take to silence
the white of my mind, a woman approached.
Did I have an extra film. Her husband, stupid ass,
had messed up the camera. Well maybe it wasn't
his fault but she had to get mad at someone.
I told her 75 years ago the mountain exploded,
she was walking on its tears large as they were.
But she didn't hear in the wind
so I met her where she was, offered my camera,
would send her the prints. This was no help.
They had to be there in the picture
or who would know or believe. To climb
all this way was pointless, was nothing
without proof. All I could do was look out
past the caldera down at the lake
like a blue eye winking and felt the mountain
moan I swear. You will know
I whispered, but she didn't hear
in the wind which near took off her hair.
Would I mind possibly could I snap them over near the rim,
with Mt. Shasta over their shoulder
to give perspective. Of course yes
and of course I did. That was just the beginning. Soon
she had other ideas, one with the snow field in back,
how about here. And there. And there like a child
she skipped, her daughter just grinning,
her husband squinting so close to the sun.
Where was I from, she asked, as if we should
be friends
since I was performing this service,
and when it was the same town where her first husband
was from, she ran out of shot, uncontained
with shock at proof of the world's smallness
even here. Did I know him, a store front boasted his name,
her claim to fame she blushed. Well now you have another
I said, considering where she stood
and she stopped short. Him? pointing to the stupid ass
who looked quite proud and
I caught them like that
with nothing of importance behind in the privacy of wind.
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