A Poem for Jason: “The Concrete Arrow”

The morning drive 

finds me 

rolling and breaking and

blinking into the forever red, yellow, green

lights bending over the 

old familiar concrete arrow--

pointing east

but not going far.

Not far enough

to reach the mountains,

the woods,

and the long, yawning desert beyond it.

It stops long before the rolling

chaparral covered hills

where campesinos once 

slept on dusty mats near 

small fires

warming beans and goat’s milk

in the morning mist.

My drive takes me only slightly

off the concrete arrow

and sets me down among other

tin cans and plastic cups--

row by row,

outlined in white

and decorated with parking signs.

Only part of me arrives, though.

The other part 

Is walking--

off the concrete arrow.

Damp, dark, grit

gives beneath my feet

as I wander into a wild 

unknown place off road

where the air around touches

and smells of animal

and mineral.

Where the light moves

like a spirit

softening from blue to gold

and then fire.

Where the sound of snapping branches

or a guttural groan

could be beast or beauty

or both.

It is a place unknown to me.

And that is what calls me there.