I can see new scars on the Eastern hills
Burn marks on the landscape
The charred remains of conifers and oaks
A fire swept through
Again.
It won't be the last.
I can also see
One single California poppy.
Battered by the wind
Holding on strong
A tiny, tender sun
Shining brightly
Against the grey rock
And the faded grass
There will always be
More fires
New scars
And every year
New poppies
Picture yourself
In an empty room
Then just the room
Empty
The absence of you
Lingering
Where you used to be
Like a three-dimensional shadow
In space
Like the negative image of the sun
Beneath your eyelids
When you close your eyes
After staring at the sun
Too much.
I was well-versed
In the language of grief.
But it keeps evolving
Beyond any dictionary
I find myself
Incapable of pronouncing the words
Unable to even decipher the characters
All I can do is listen.
Always The Crows
And then
There’s always the crows.
A black and shiny sadness that descends upon this world
Every morning.
A comforting darkness.
I can hear them when I open my windows.
Somehow their calls seem louder when the skies are grey.
They greet me when I go on my morning run,
Tossing walnuts into the street so cars can crack them open.
Resourceful birds.
Their voices are not beautiful, but honest.
Crows don’t sugarcoat.
Harbingers of mortality
Travelers between worlds
Crossing from this realm into the next
Deep down and high above
When everything else is gone
There will always be the crows
The mighty silent hush of their wings
Their snarky commentary on this world
Their utter blackness
And a few scattered walnuts
For them to feast on
After we are gone.
Because during these past months, I have found my tribe on the streets of Santa Rosa. I don’t know most of their names, but I feel connected. Most of them don’t know me at all, but I feel respected and cared for. When I am with them, I feel safe, even in the face of danger. Most of them are half my age or younger. They are young. They are angry. They are fed up with the mess we made of this world. They are determined. They are kind. They give a fuck. They keep us safe. WE KEEP US SAFE. They are out on the streets standing up against injustice, and caring for each other. They fight for those who are most vulnerable. They build pop-up food pantries, over and over again, even if they get torn down. They make street art. They play the drums. They are ready with a smile and a hug. They get tear gassed and they wash tear gas out of children's eyes. They put bandages on wounds caused by rubber bullets. They go to jail for social and racial justice. They wear masks and protect each other against COVID-19. They hand out masks and water and energy bars to anyone in need. They use their cars and their bodies to prevent yahoos from plowing into protesters. They secure busy intersections so we can take a knee for Breonna Taylor. SAY HER NAME. They wait for those who walk more slowly. They ride alongside me on their bike to make sure I get home safely at night. They sing happy birthday to Andy Lopez. They build altars and tie bright ribbons to their car antennas. They spend hours making phone calls and send texts to pass Measure P for better civilian oversight of local law enforcement. They speak eloquently at City Council and Board of Supervisor meetings. They march, they shout, they fight, they dance, they sing, they paint, they hug, they laugh, they cry, they write, they vote.
No matter what happens today, tomorrow, or any day after, our fight is far from over. But I can go on because of my tribe. They are the youth of Santa Rosa. They are our future. They give me hope.
WE KEEP US SAFE. NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE.
