http://www.albany.edu/offcourse 
         http://offcourse.org
         ISSN 1556-4975
		
Published by Ricardo and Isabel Nirenberg since 1998
Greedy with dreams
          of clockless afternoons,
          siestas and wine
          poured by brown-skinned servant girls,
          those first rough-bearded
          English-surnamed
          sunburned seekers mapped
          the rolling hills
          into estates
          with Spanish names, built mills,
          verandas, promenades.
          Then clean-shaved Yankees came,
          clocks in their brains,
          assaying change.
          Surveys
          squared maize fields
          into lots of equal size
          around the new-raised churches,
          banks and jail.
          Iron rails
          brought things to sell
          and took the maize away.
          Today new condos
          brick the trails
          Murietta rode,
          his pistols flashing
          dreams
          not ours to seize.
Finches twittered
          through the drying needles of gray pines
          leaning across a sandstone ledge
          —some kind of warning? I wondered
          then saw darkening drops.
          From oval manzanita leaves
          on a branch protruding from the cliffside
          just above my head
        hung two—no three—sticky globules.
Above them, still higher,
          the trunk of the pine
          bled wavering signals
          that grew thicker
          where I squinted
          towards the mouth
          of a shallow cave:
an arm dangling downward
          and the white of pupil-less eyes.
Winds change the face I left
          on boyhood photographs, the old house
          framed around my smile, cottonwoods          
          and Chinese elms leaning in to filigree
          the distant clouds. In memory that face,
          those eyes, the mouth's incipient smile,
          become someone who's not quite me—
          yet not quite someone else.
          I look again: The eyebrows frame a foliage
          of many season's leaves, phantoms 
          to reappear in another place
          in someone else's mind. Hands on knees
          I sit and smile, the child I'm not
          becomes the me I seek.            
It opened its beak, like her–like me–
          mute, overwhelmed. Slowly I knelt, my arm
          around her shoulders. She trembled, hugging
          the bird as panic tightened her throat
          and a cry forced tears that I wiped from her face
          with my fingers. Despite a ventilated
          box, water and seeds, it died. Or went
          to live within her doubting, anxious eyes.
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