High Chaparral, less tame than most forests,
due to the dwarfish reach
of manzanita and chaparro and yucca and sage,
that grow through el Niño and la Niña,
year after year, sometimes a century,
building fuel for a fine fire from
a whim of a wind and a cloud, rubbing
ozone on the granite, to paint
a flash of all God’s power,
as a map I asked for, for
trails
are few
for upright walkers, too old to crawl.
Such trails less traveled by are
shared by bigger beasts,
the kind good to eat and the kind that can
eat
a kid, who is small enough to crawl
where nothing bigger fits,
I hear,
come and see,
I can’t,
I say,
but I can imagine it’s a special place,
related to all the special places,
where kids are free to feel
safe, as this universe,
this
special place.