HUNTING STONES ON GRIZZLY PEAK

The odor of eucalyptus after first rain dazzles 

the senses with the memory of thirsty rocks,
small pieces quartz resurface on the fire road
like blind hail after the deluge, quiet stars 
dozing in red Franciscan mud.

I gather them up, not random shards of upheaval,
but the remains of fossils filled with quartz,
the unkempt story of seed clams and shells
still crawling out of the sea.

As I glimpse the bay from a limestone reef,  

I hold a hard beauty in my pockets.
There are more treasures to be found,
dark obsidian flakes also swim in my pockets.

Someone’s attempt at resurrecting the art 

of flint napping, a dark tide at my feet.

All this immeasurable bounty of the past 

teases me away from the 21st-century.

The spine of the drought is broken. 

The coinage in my pockets pulls me down. 

My pants are in danger of slipping off 

with the combined weight of rocks. 

I return those stones back to the earth, 

taste the pungent air, breathe in the mist 
with a sense of finally belonging 

to this landscape not of my own choosing.

8/9/23 Write On! Workshop with Terri Glass