There is beauty here too
in this wild space
where we all flock.
Wild geese, still wet
and slick from the lake,
where men cast their line
for fish they cannot eat
head towards the house
lined with a corrugated metal fence.
Heavy grey rocks rest beside rows of young trees.
Camps are still pitched here.
There is one with a California flag,
another with a tie-dyed blanket serving as a door.
An empty lawn chair sits vacant
waiting for the blue lines painted in the sand
to become new trails.
Men and women standing in rows
practice Tai chi in their pajamas on the grass.
Children chase each other as their parents
sit wearing masks, watching them play.
Cyclists with their padded bike shorts and
fancy thin tires broadcast their arrival,
louder than the lone bagpiper bellowing
under the oak tree, the notes perched
on his black music stand.
The San Gabriel mountains look better now
without violent orange flames lining its crest,
without plumes of ash and smoke,
rising and reaching into our lungs.
The bioswales meant for the rainwater
flowing towards the Rio Hondo river
have now captured me and my dogs.
We chase dragonflies and orange poppies.
Wander between native shrubs and trees.
I hold them steady as rabbits, lizards and
squirrels run too close to where we stand.
All of us have been carried here
by so many storms.
Allowing gravity to pull us
through layers of soil
until we are all clean.