Thursday, June 17, 2010

SODAROCK LANE

When I walked in the oak-lined meadow below the dam, a redtail hawk keened a warning & all the small birds pelted to earth like a hard rain.

They say Rickard Dibenkorn lived in the white house on Soda Rock Lane. They say his wife still lives there—all shuttered in—from the future or the past?

No cell reception in Alexander Valley—I can't call out but I can pick up messages if I stand just so in the vineyards at the bottom of the driveway. But do I even want to? Tureeda calls asking for a teacher evaluation. There is no Make it So button here. No internet. I've stepped back in time. Mt St Helena is brooding in purple and mauve shawls.

* * *

A tree sparrow miscalculates the boundaries between glass and air. Staggers off mid-flight, nearly paying for that metaphor with his life. The cat is ever hopeful. I have seen him leap mid-air and launch himself off the balcony—a silly wingless angel.

I water the plants & gather lettuce and radishes for dinner. Booker the cat observes my every move and calculates the distance to the table for a flying passage, does an about-face kitty courbette when I yell NO! He is so desperate for attention and food, even radishes will do.

The cat has left me a small present—a tick tries to burrow in the middle of my back. In deep summer, the ticks climb higher in the trees so they can launch onto their victims. Luckily I caught him working the skin on my back, but not before he burrowed in. Will I grow a biological target practice on my back? A bull's eye looking back to where I came from?

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